


The Terms of Trade

by Sistermine



Series: Slavery [2]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: AU, Canon-era AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sistermine/pseuds/Sistermine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Marcus promises his god to take care of Esca—forever.</i>
</p><p> <i>In Roman Britain, Marcus and Esca have bitter experiences of slavery. Will they ever see each other as anything but an enemy?<br/>In modern Britain, Esca is an archaeology post-grad. He's forever hopeful, but somehow forever unlucky in love. With his usual expert timing he finally meets a cute man—just before he's leaving the country.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terms of Trade

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> **Original Art Post** :[By the_little_owl on LJ](http://the-little-owl.livejournal.com/150323.html#cutid1)
> 
>  **Warnings:** Ancient story: Non-con, dub-con, violence. Suicidal thoughts. Death of minor characters. Death of a main character in old age (in epilogue).  
>  Modern story: No warnings.
> 
>  **General Notes:** Set in a parallel universe where the ancient Britons have more territory, a great variety of languages and ways of sharing money with Hibernians, i.e. there's no authentic history, customs, names or anything much here.
> 
> Please note that the sex in this story is a real mixture: some of it's fanfic porn and some isn't. Heed the warnings.
> 
> Huge thanks to Planejane for the patient and fabulous beta – I'd never used a beta before so it was a steep learning curve and she was very courteous. What I've managed to get right about punctuation is entirely thanks to her. She should also be credited with some **major** suggestions on structure and style, making the whole thing make sense. She has been, in her own words, a midwife.
> 
> Thanks also to skysthelimit_7 for letting me badger her for Spanish translations.
> 
> Thanks to Ningloreth for my Esca/Marcus fanfic banner.
> 
> More huge thanks to the_little_owl for the sumptuous drawings, and for some huge historical amendments to make it marginally more accurate.
> 
> Final thanks to the LJ EBB mods, the other authors and artists, and many other Eagle fandom people for general hand-holding and moral support throughout.
> 
> None of these people bear any responsibility for the remaining liberties I've chosen to take with history, plausibility, and the English language.

 

**Prologue **

 

There was some sort of sod's law about house-mates. When you wanted some privacy they were always in your face, yet when—for once—you had good news you wanted to share, they were never there.

Esca rapped on Cottia's bedroom door for the second time. “Cottia, I need to talk to you; I know you're in there.” He listened hard, but couldn't hear anything. Maybe she _was_ asleep; he'd be in trouble if he really woke her up.

He’d given up and turned away when he heard a faint rustling and then the murmur of Cottia muttering. The door opened a crack and Cottia's face appeared in the gap. “This'd better be good Cunoval; I'm rather busy at the moment,” she said dryly.

“Oh.” He stepped backwards grimacing. “Sorry. I didn't realise you had company; I thought you were just … well, anyway, it can wait.” He turned away again. “I'll fill you in later, so to speak.”

She glared at him. “You had your chance and you blew it. So to speak.” She squeezed through the door gap, purple silk robe pulled tight, and frowned at his phone. “You'd better not be showing me more puppies on You Tube.”

“No, no.” He turned, unable to keep his excitement hidden. “I've got that job for the summer!”

A smile transformed her face. “Oh Esca,” she said. “Show me.”

He turned his phone round to show her his email.

 

 

_Para: Esca Cunoval (esca.cunoval@gmail.com)  
De: pvc.pa@santiago.ac.es  
Fecha: 6th April 2011  
Asunto: Ayudante superior_

__

 

_Esca,_

_I wanted to be the first to announce that the Sociedad Arqueologica y Prehistoria de Pontevedra will be pleased to offer you the temporary post of senior assistant to the Director of Excavations at the Montemarin site._

_My administrator will send you further details of accommodation and contract._

_I look forward so much to meeting you in person._

_Placido_

_Profesor Placido Vasquez Castro  
Departamento de Ciencias de la Antiguidad  
Universidad de Santiago de Compostela _

 

Her eyes scanned the screen before she turned and beamed at him. “Told you! Things are looking up. I've got a job, and now you've got one. I've got a man...” She raised her eyebrows, grinning.

He nodded. “For once, I think you could be right. Come and celebrate with me later. If you can?”

“We'll see.” She jerked her head backwards and whispered, “It depends how this goes.” She put a hand out and pulled him towards her for a quick kiss on the cheek. “Well done sweetie, you deserve it.”

A flash of purple and her bedroom door shut firmly.

His cheeks already ached with smiling.

 

 

Part One

 

“What kind of a name is Esca?”

This was always the worst bit; he should have changed his name to Frank long ago. “It's stupid,” he shook his head and looked away as he felt himself blush. Maybe one day he'd be able to talk to good-looking men without giving himself away.

“Tell me.” Mark's green eyes smiled at him with no apparent mockery.

“It's because of my sisters. My name is Francesco after my grandfather. Because my Mum's called Fran, my family called me Chesco. When my littlest sister could speak she could only manage Esco or Esca … which kind of stuck. Pretty much everyone calls me that now.”

“That's not _so_ stupid.” Mark smiled and put a hand on Esca's arm. “Francesco.” He shook his head. “Esca.” He nodded. “It suits you. My real name is Markus, but no-one's ever called me that—and lived.”

“Markus, hmm?” said Esca, lifting an eyebrow and stroking a finger on the back of Mark's hand where it rested on his arm. “How very Roman.”

“Not even cute boys with stupid names of their own get away with it, _Francesco_.” Mark gave him a long look before he started to smile.

Esca felt slightly less stupid. He smiled back.

*

His bedroom was an absolute tip. As they stumbled out of the taxi Esca wondered if he could safely leave Mark in the kitchen whilst he cleared at least his bed, but the moment they were in the door he could hear Lee and someone else arguing in there. Better not risk it.

In any case, there didn't seem to be much room for negotiation, or talking of any variety. Mark's tongue was warm and wet and licking round the back of his ear, and he wasn't sure if his legs were going to make it to a bed. He turned his head a little to bring their mouths back together, and slowed the kiss down, pressing Mark's large body backwards. “My bedroom's on the top floor.” He looked up into Mark's darkened eyes and figured the straightforward approach was best. “I'll warn you now, it's a complete mess. Do you want any coffee or anything before we go up?”

“Maybe just some water.” Mark's smile was sweet, and he was moving back towards Esca when the front door burst open and Cottia swept in, red hair escaping her hat. She looked at Mark and raised her eyebrows theatrically. “Hi Esca. You on your way in or out?”

He took Mark's hand and started to drag him upstairs. “Cottia, meet Mark; Mark meet Cottia.” He glared at her, daring her to say more, but trying not to let Mark see his expression. “Good night.” When he risked flicking a glance, Mark was looking bemused, but still smiling. He had a really nice smile.

Once they reached Esca's room (after two flights of stairs. “That's the bathroom—the door doesn't lock so it's usually open if there's no one in. If it's closed we knock to see if anyone's there.”), Esca led Mark into the dark without putting the main light on. He reached over his desk and felt for the lamp switch; its yellow glow was a little less stark and a little more romantic. He bundled up papers from amongst his rumpled bedclothes and stacked them on the desk. “Sorry,” he said. “Told you it's a pit.”

“It's cosier than I'm used to,” Mark laughed and came over, catching his hand to stop him pulling the bed covers straight. “But I didn't come here for _house_ beautiful.” His other fingers lingered over Esca's cheek after he turned Esca's face towards him. “Stop trying to clear up. I get enough of tidiness.”

Mark was looking down at him again, focusing on his mouth, and leaning in to kiss him. The warmth of him smelt like honey. Esca started to relax; he could feel the buzz of just-enough alcohol in his veins. He closed his eyes as the kiss went on. Mark gently pressed into him whilst their tongues moved together.

Warm fingers were stroking his shoulder blades under his jacket, just on the edge of ticklish, making Esca arch up. His cock pressed into Mark's thigh (God, he was a tall fucker). He moved his hands under the lapels of Mark’s coat, pushing the heavy weight off Mark's shoulders and trapping his arms. When he ran his palms down the silky material of Mark's pullover, he could feel hard nipples; he paused his hands there, thumbing the little nubs. Mark swallowed and squirmed, wriggling one arm out of his coat sleeve to bring it round and tangle in Esca's hair.

Esca shivered as Mark's fingers touched his scalp. That always turned him on. He pushed one hand underneath Mark's top to slide up his hot skin, and played with the nipple with his finger and thumb. Mark broke the kiss, resting his forehead on Esca's as he moaned. Esca pulled back, amused, as Mark opened his eyes and caught his gaze. They paused, staring for a moment.

Mark twisted away, saying “Take your clothes off,” as he shook his other arm free of his coat. Esca watched him as he lifted his pullover, exposing washboard abs. He was still staring when Mark's face reappeared. Mark raised an eyebrow at him and sat down on the bed, taking his shoes off.

His ears were ringing a bit from earlier; he detoured to hook up his music player for some background noise, hesitating before selecting random. He had a play-list for situations like this but he didn't want to be caught out. This guy seemed observant; a play-list marked ’bedroom’ suddenly seemed cheesy. When he turned back, toeing his shoes off and kicking them aside, Mark was leaning back on his elbows, naked, clothes in a tidy pile on the floor. He looked a bit too good to be in Esca's bedroom—even more sculpted out of his clothes, erection bold and beautiful lying on his abdomen.

“Esca?” said Mark, louder. Esca felt a moment of self-doubt as he pulled his own clothes off, flinging them under the desk out of the way. He turned to face Mark and saw his eyes catch on Esca's nipples.

“Jesus.” Mark sat up and reached out for him, pulling him forwards by the wrist, yanking him off balance. “You've got nipple rings.” He bent over to take one in his mouth. The shock of Mark's tongue sent a bolt through Esca’s groin as Mark held his wrists firmly, licking and sucking around the piercing.

Mark moved to the other nipple, playing with it with his tongue and pulling Esca closer. He released a hand and Esca grabbed his shoulder, inhaling his sharp scent. He ended up straddling Mark, feeling his hard body warm between his thighs as Mark's arms surrounded him.

Mark lay back, bringing him down to the bed beneath them, still sucking at him, teasing the ring. Leaning on the bed with his hand near Mark's ear, he took in the sheen of satin skin reflecting yellow lamplight.

Mark stroked down his back to grip his arse. Esca pushed up a little, feeling Mark's hands on him, possessive, squeezing. He pulled back to look at Mark and watched Mark's eyes focus on him. He had amazing dark eyelashes. The gaze held for a moment before Mark raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

“What?” said Esca.

Mark answered, “I want to fuck you.”

Esca felt his face fall and tried to cover it, quelling the familiar nervousness in his chest. “I don't bottom,” he said carefully, watching for Mark's reaction, ready to back out quickly if things turned unpleasant.

“OK,” said Mark easily. He _looked_ fine. “What would _you_ like? You could fuck _me_.” Esca raised an eyebrow; Mark was looking at him eagerly. Could it really be that easy? His last partner had not been as compliant; he figured it was something about being small that the men he attracted seemed to think he wanted to be fucked or dominated, or both.

He looked at Mark's face; Mark's lips were parted, shiny and inviting. He knew exactly what he wanted. “I want you to suck me.”

“With pleasure. Come up here.” Mark boosted them both up the bed until his head reached the pillows and Esca was kneeling at his chest level. He held Esca's hips and lifted his head up high—showing amazing flexibility, Esca thought—to get his top lip over the head of Esca's cock, drawing it into his mouth.

Esca bit his tongue hard to keep from groaning. It always felt amazing the first time someone's mouth closed over him. He could feel Mark's tongue swirling around, sucking gently like he'd done with the nipple rings.

Mark looked up into Esca's eyes, and Esca's stomach did a flip. He leant over, holding the headboard and moving deeper, as Mark relaxed his head back onto the pillows and let Esca take over.

It was warm and delicious. Esca felt his chest tightening as Mark kept his eyes on Esca's, sliding his mouth—wet pink lips—around the shaft as Esca rocked back and forth. Esca made an involuntary noise and closed his eyes to get a grip on himself. The smooth rasp of Mark's tongue ran over him.

Shifting to get more comfortable, he felt Mark's palms warm on his arse, pressing him closer, encouraging Esca to fuck his face. He was getting near. He opened his eyes; Mark's were closed. He stroked Mark's hair with one hand, feeling the stiffness of his hair gel give way to softness as he wound his fingers into the short strands and pulled gently. Mark's quiet moans got louder as he sped up the pace. This rhythm was undoing him.

When Mark opened his eyes again, looking up and rubbing his tongue around, Esca lost it. He felt his muscles clenching and groaned Mark's name, loud, through his orgasm, before sagging back onto Mark's body.

Warm arms held him firmly, shuffling him down until they were both comfortable. He managed to make a vague noise, trying to gather himself. Mark was tonguing his ear, sending a shiver right through him. Mark laughed: “Your ears are sensitive. I'm going to remember that.”

“Mmm.” He was beginning to get himself back together, breath steadying. He was feeling languid, and couldn't move.

“Don't go to sleep on me; I haven't finished with you yet.” Mark turned his head until he could kiss Esca again. Esca unwound and stretched alongside him, stroking down his chest to his hips as they kissed. Mark's body was firm and warm in his arms.

Mark flung a leg over him, pressing him down. He could feel Mark's erection, firm against his hip, and pulled away from his mouth. “Not going to be able to fuck you for a while.” He reached for Mark's cock and fisted it, hot and hard in his hand. “What would you like instead?”

Mark smiled and lay back. “Mmm. Just keep doing that.”

*

“Is that _my_ coffee?” Esca filled up the kettle and stared at Cottia's half-full mug on the table.

“You have the best.” Cottia was opening the fridge.

“Buy your own. I economise on everything else so that _I_ can drink that. And you didn't even make me any.”

“I know better than to wake you up early.” Cottia pouted. “Don't you want to make _me_ happy too?”

“I'm not any richer than you. Quite the opposite since your little job.” He did a quick twirl, one hand in the air like a ballerina. “Surely that makes you happier than stealing my coffee.” He picked up the cafetière and took a pile of pots out of the sink, making space to rinse it.

She grinned at him before returning to peering in the fridge, moving stuff around and sniffing at a yoghurt pot. “You're very grumpy for someone who definitely got some last night.”

Esca glared at her.

Cottia's face turned serious. “Oh. Are you OK? Was he...?”

Esca huffed. “Yes, it was great, thanks for asking.” He banged the things back in the sink making no effort to be quiet.

“So why are you in such a bad mood?”

“Because, genius, he left before I woke up, and I don't have any way to contact him.” He sighed. “Sorry. I'm getting too old for this shit.”

*

Esca looked at his phone. What? He certainly hadn't programmed someone in as “Gorgeous.” He was about to send it to voice-mail when he had a sudden memory of Mark's blinding smile. Esca had just watched his handsome face screwed up in orgasmic bliss as Mark spurted into his hand. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Just his luck Mark had heard him; even worse that he liked to tease.

The memory made him flush scarlet; he hoped Lee and James didn't notice as he casually got up and went out into the hall.

“Arsehole,” he said into the phone.

“Is that _all_ you see me as?” The voice was amused.

“Yes, after the disappearing act.”

“Ah. That's why I put my number in your phone, and yours in mine.”

“You couldn't have left a note?” He couldn’t help still feeling cross.

Mark put on a posh accent. “Notes are so last century, darling.” There was a pause, and Mark sounded different when he spoke again. “Sorry. I was going to text you but I was so late by the time I left, and I've been on duty since then. Forgive me?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, if it helps, I wondered if you'd like to go for a curry later tonight? You look like you’d benefit from a square meal.”

“Um ... look Mark, that sounds nice, but post-grad student finances and all, I don't think I can.”

“No, I meant … my treat. I'm not paid masses, but probably more than you. I assume you're on some Dickensian student loan. The only thing is …,” Mark paused.

Esca looked round the hall as he waited. Dickensian was right—the damp staining the wallpaper wouldn't be out of place in a Victorian novel. “Mark?” he prompted.

“I'll still be in uniform. I won't have time to change unless you can wait to eat very late – which I don't really want to do.”

“Uniform. What uniform?” Esca had visions of waiters in black and white, and shop assistants in nylon jackets.

“I'm in the Army.”

“... Oh.” His voice had gone funny.

Well. That explained the abdominals and the haircut. But it opened up a whole new set of questions.

Mark carried on. “So. Would that be all right? Can you face being seen in public with a man in uniform?”

That was a good question. Esca was trying to process. He was finishing a PhD for God's sake, why couldn't he think? So. Point for: This particular member of the armed forces was willing to be seen out with another man. That had to count for something, right?

Point against: All his—and his friends'—assumptions about people in the military.

Point for: He was gorgeous.

And gentle.

He took a breath. “OK. Yes, that'd be great. Where and when?”

After he listened to the directions, he changed Mark's designation in his phone, and went back into the kitchen. He was going to have to face this head on, and Lee was going to give him hell.

_Armyboy._

*

Esca caught Cottia's eye and she shook her head in warning. They were all sick of having this conversation. He closed his mouth, but it didn't stop Lee.

“You would never come to the Occupy demo's, and worst of all, you brought _him_ here to our house!”

“Who do you think _he_ is?” Esca shouted. “He's not a bloody colonel, he's just an army grunt like your pal Billy. And it's not like your plans for world domination were spread out on the kitchen table!”

“Should’ve known you were a traitor; you're like those undercover cops spying on the movement.”

“Hardly. If I was, it would be _you_ I was fucking, not him, and I'd have a lot better cover story. And, I wouldn't be so glad I was leaving!”

“Leaving?” Cottia butted in, looking shocked. “You're coming back, right?”

*

“It's for three months—the summer break.” Sometimes Esca hated phones; you just couldn't tell what the other person was thinking.

“Oh. Starting right now?” Mark's voice sounded flat.

He took a breath. This wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. “Yeah. It needs to be excavated now because they've suspended the building works, and they need all hands to the wheel to get it done fast. For a change, the Galicians are paying—not a lot, but I'd get experience _and_ not be worse off.”

“Sounds like a good arrangement for you.”

“Yeah. Um, maybe you could come over to visit and we could... I could have some time off?”

“Sorry—don't think I can get over to Spain to check up on you.” Mark laughed. “With our rotation I expect I'll be posted for those dates.”

“Sure. OK. That's a pity. Um, do you want to go for a drink tonight?”

*

Esca finished the last dregs of coffee and handed him the mug to wash, bumping hips at Mark's tiny sink. From here, you could almost see into his neighbours' flats in the next block, children's voices drifting up from the multi-coloured playground below.

Mark said, “I'll be sorry to miss your house-party.”

“Can't you get the time off?”

“I'm going to be overseas.”

“Overseas? You're being deployed already?” Esca was suddenly worried. He’d spent a couple of nights with Mark recently, but hadn't really thought about his job and what might be involved.

Mark shook his head. “Nah. Still some training before the next tour of duty.”

Esca joked, “Aren't you allowed to tell your nearest and dearest where you'll be?”

Mark visibly froze.

Esca felt the sudden coldness round his shoulders; he'd done it again. Just ‘cos he’d spent the night, it didn’t mean...

Mark wasn't making eye contact. Esca straightened up and bumped into the table as took a step back. “OK, I didn't mean... It's fine.” He was gripping the table, hard. The edge bit into his hand and it felt good.

Mark was still saying nothing, though his expression looked haunted as he turned to Esca, drying his hands on a tea-towel.

Shit. It was time to get out. “I... You've got my number. Give me a ring if you... Or, email me.”

“Esca...” Mark didn't move; he looked defeated.

“I'll see you when I see you, armyboy.” Esca kept his self-control long enough to grab his coat and bag and thrust his naked feet into his shoes. “Don't get yourself killed.” He closed the door as gently as he could manage, resisting the urge to slam it and run.

Shit. He was always an idiot, but this time...

He combed his hand through his hair as he clattered down the concrete stairs, avoiding the pile of rubbish and keeping his shoulders away from the walls as he flung himself round the corners.

The fresh, non-urine-smelling air was welcome as he reached the pavement three floors down. He walked away quickly, ignoring the bus stop at the main road. He'd walk into Uni; it would help clear his head.

So. He was down a pair of socks.

*

He was _not_ going to contact Mark. In fact, best to make a clean break. Yes, they'd got on well, even outside the bedroom, but he needed to manage his own... disappointment.

He sent the call to voice-mail and deleted the texts without reading them.

What had he been thinking anyway? Mark was in the army and they'd met in a club; it wasn't like Mark'd been looking for a soul-mate.

Casual—he could do that. Next time he was not going to assume that every man who was sweet to him was ready to fall in love—because clearly, he was getting his signals mixed up.

Cottia thought his pride was bruised. It wasn't his pride he was worried about, but he let her take him clubbing and buy him drinks. He drew the line at letting her choose men for him—he was perfectly capable of picking them up on his own, thank you, even if he was drunker than normal.

This one looked nice; cute and friendly. Very friendly, but... Esca thought he'd found out where the expression sucking face came from. Kissing had never really felt like that before, sort of impersonal. He wasn’t in the mood; he peeled away and danced on his own for a while.

Dancing was good. Dancing put him in the mood. Someone large offered to blow him in the toilets. Well, you couldn't really turn _that_ down, could you?

He wondered if he'd actually said Mark's name out loud. Luckily, when he opened his eyes again, the man had already gone.

*

It was supposed to be in Esca’s honour, but he wasn't under any illusions about his house-mates. The whole downstairs was heaving with lots of people he'd barely met, but at least they’d brought beer. He'd had more than a few already.

It seemed a good idea to send a text, now that he was going. Closure.

>Hi armyboy.

He sat on the stairs drinking from another bottle, watching people and wondering how you'd re-create this scene from its archaeological remains in a thousand years.

His phone's chirp surprised him.

_Hi. You OK?_

>You're missing a great party.

_Am I? Wet here. Reminds me of your hall._

>Hall is full of gorgeous sweaty bodies.

_Wish I was there._

>Where are you?

_Can't tell you. State secret._

>LOL. Tell me.

_Guess. Got mud in ears and trench-foot. Have to go._

He was typing a reply when another text came through.

_Safe trip tmrw. Hasta luego amigo._

Esca looked at the screen. _Amigo_. Friend.

He swallowed more beer.

>Don't get shot armyboy.

He was such an idiot.

 

** Part Two **

 

Cauis smiled at him as he walked past, and Marcus felt himself flush. He considered not getting up; he could remain here and review the arrangements for tomorrow's expedition. On the other hand, he was a good Centurion; he knew the plans backwards, and had sound support from his men. A moment with Cauis would be helpful relief—for them both.

“Marcus,” Cauis greeted him quietly once he reached the tree. “I thought you had decided not to come.”

“I should not be here.”

“You say that. But here you are.” Cauis cocked his head as he put his palm on Marcus's cheek, and pressed his thumb onto his lips. Marcus opened his mouth slightly and gently bit Cauis's thumb, eyes closing as he tongued the very tip, tasting.

Later, Marcus found himself planning when they could next meet—plotting it out as if it were a campaign—barely registering the whispers round the fires.

*

This arrangement was becoming a regular thing. Their bodies pressed together, buckles catching on each other as Cauis manoeuvred him further into the darkness away from any fire-glow. They couldn't make too much noise; Marcus bit his lip to keep silent as he felt Cauis's fingers grip him.

Marcus managed to undo the tight folds beneath his companion's tunic, finally getting his hand on him. He felt Cauis writhe at the touch, fingers grabbing to the point of pain, and then his mouth was on Marcus's: open, wet and shocking.

There was no further denying what they were doing, what they were to each other.

Already the whispers were louder. He shouldn't ignore them.

*

Caius's eyelashes were dark on his cheeks; so thick Marcus's mother would have envied them. Marcus smiled at her memory, sad though it was; she was gone now, and he had been far away. He traced the shadows on Cauis's face with a piece of grass, smiling as his sleepy lover twitched and moved. He caressed his ear, and Cauis growled at him, “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

The eyes that opened were deep brown, soaking-in the sun, pupils narrowing to a tiny pin-prick. Cauis frowned at him and rolled onto his side, grasping Marcus's wrist and moving the straw away. “Then _nothing_ is what you will get.”

He was thinner than Marcus, but still strong. As he pulled Marcus's arm forwards, Marcus lost his balance. He put the other hand out to stop himself falling. Cauis continued his move, catching both arms until he had Marcus on his back, hands held above his head. Cauis loomed over him, blocking the sun. He looked down at Marcus, unsmiling, studying his face. Marcus pretended to pout. Cauis continued to look at him, asking again, “What do you want?”

Marcus held his eyes, equally unsmiling now; feelings rose unbidden in his chest.

What _did_ he want? He wanted it all. And yet he felt the danger of losing it all, gambled away for what—for love? He had already ignored the whispers for too long.

*

The men around him had tried to re-group. Their scouts had failed them; there were so many of the Britons' menacing chariots.

It was pure chance that he saw Caius go down amidst the chaos. Big Julius had tried to hold him up and drag him along, but was unable to take the man's weight at the same time as protecting himself from the attacks on their left, coming in thicker now. Marcus had fought his way across towards them, yelling hoarse encouragement along the way. He was still praying that the reinforcements would arrive, and soon, or they were in danger of being cut off and captured.

He was nearly there when a very large Briton had thundered towards him, swinging his sword around. Marcus blocked automatically and moved to undercut the man. He was more agile than Marcus had credited and parried the thrust, managing to land a winding blow with just the heel of his hand. Marcus bent against the pressure in his chest, but managed to evade the man's next move, turning fast so that the killing blow landed on his leg and not his head. As he went down, unable to stay upright, he used his momentum to knock the man off his feet, taking him down too. The Briton's head bounced up when they hit the ground. His eyes were unfocused when Marcus had to use his arms to pull himself on top, his legs refusing to cooperate.

He had the man under him, pinned, but could not get room for a sword blow without losing his hold. Instead, he throttled him, keeping the man’s arms pinned so he couldn't retaliate. He felt a hand, desperately scrabbling, digging nails into his thigh, until—mercifully—it went slack. Focused on the man's last movements, checking that he was really dead and breathed no more, he didn't notice the other assailant until the whoosh in his ear as the blow landed.

*

There was only pain—

—Pain in his head and pain, when he tried to move, in his leg. He twisted his head to the side and attempted to turn over, stomach clenching as he retched. Distantly he heard shouting, then someone was moving him, dragging him, and he surrendered to the darkness.

Next time he surfaced he was aware of hands on him, agonising where they moved around his leg; the blackness came again quickly.

A familiar voice was talking to him gently, feeding him water and stroking the hair off his forehead. He felt tears squeeze from his eyes and tried to open them, everything swimming and blurry. Caius came into focus—beautiful. Caius pressed his hand and moved away, and Marcus couldn't seem to move his head to follow him; his throat wouldn't obey his orders to speak.

Then, time was filled with rough hands, and cold water was forced down his throat; still there was the constant backdrop of pain everywhere, worse when he tried to move, but always a throbbing in his leg and his head—sickening.

After that, the more lucid moments were filled with guttural voices. His calls for Caius were met with harsh treatment. Gradually movement returned to him, but Caius didn't, and Marcus thought it must have been a vision born of wanting.

He kept his mouth shut and began to take notice of who was taking care of him: a woman who seemed to have healing gifts; her _very_ large son—his name sounded like Groan to Marcus; and several others who came and went. He could piece together words—he'd been learning this language before the battle that cost him his health and, by the looks of it, his freedom—and they kept to simple commands.

He must have cost them much in time and effort so far. He wondered that they hadn't left him to die or traded him for their own casualties. Perhaps that wasn't the custom here. Instead, he was fed, and given foul tinctures. His leg was bandaged and his body cleaned, from time to time, until the day they made him stand.

Groan hauled him up saying, “Stand, slave.” He stood, leaning on the tall Briton, swaying. His leg gave out and he fell in a heap, uncoordinated after so long on his back. “Abrell!” Groan shouted, yanking him up, and another man took Marcus's arm round his neck as they made him walk. He felt faint and giddy with the exercise and the rising pain. He vomited over their boots, and passed out to the sound of them berating him, his gorge still rising.

He woke back on the pallet with new bruising, a dirty taste in his mouth, and a painful ache in his chest when he breathed.

*

It was days before he could walk a little on his own. They let him go outside the hut, a rope around his wrists and Groan or Abrell nearby. He almost found it funny: he couldn't have run more than six paces.

That was when he saw Caius again.

The young man was near another hut, naked to the waist and in braccae, beard growing-in and hair shaggy, looking gaunt and purpled. Twin feelings of joy and pain lanced through Marcus; tears sprang to his eyes.

Caius was pushed along by an older man whilst another walked behind them; they walked round the hut to the entrance on the far side. Marcus tried to shout to him, but his voice wouldn't carry. He felt the blow to his jaw crunch his teeth together as Abrell hit him.

*

Marcus did his best to talk to them as often as possible. He wanted to know what was happening to Cauis—what the plans were for both of them. They wouldn't talk to him much, but he listened, slowly becoming more attuned to the language.

He struggled for a long time to distinguish the men of the village, though quickly came to recognise Belatos, the headman. He rarely glimpsed Cauis. They were extremely careful to keep them apart, and no-one would feed him information; he had no allies, and not even a clear grasp of their hierarchy.

His leg was permanently damaged—he could tell that. Time was not healing it as fast as it should and he limped badly; every step was painfully fought for, and his nights were broken by cramps and spasms, shameful and ugly. There was no chance of him running, even if he hadn't been watched, tied-up and beaten.

They made Marcus do women's work. They could easily keep him tied-up grinding grain, repetitive and constant. The attempts to get him picking rocks had ended abruptly when he'd tried to bash his guard's head in. It hadn't been a plan. He'd had no provisions stored away, no horse to aid his escape on his ruined leg, and no idea where Cauis was or how to get him out too. All he had was a weapon in his hand, and an inattentive guard. Luckily for the guard, Marcus's leg had twisted under him the moment the blow landed, and instead of a caved skull the guard got an egg-sized lump and a lasting headache. Marcus got a broken nose, and bruises that took even longer to go away.

He wasn't quite sure where the urge to live came from. Perhaps it was from Cauis; he was desperate to know what was happening to the man. Every time he asked, he was met with refusals or blank looks. He couldn't help himself—sometimes blind fury would overtake him, until someone would fetch Abrell.

*

He paid attention as they moved him each day to their latrine-place and then to the hut where a few women worked; men came and went all day, checking on him. He noticed who came and went, and tried to talk to people. Some were friendlier than others, but even they didn't talk back very often.

In the evenings he was tied up in a dirty corner in one of the larger huts. Sometimes, at night, he heard things. Once, sure it was Cauis's voice, he shouted back, waking the whole hut. Groan stomped over, and his blow knocked a tooth out.

For the most part they were surly with him. His only relief came from Cottia. She brought his meagre food, and took the grain that he'd ground. She was the first person in the British village who smiled at him. He was startled into smiling back as she turned to leave.

He wondered at her status. She came and went freely, and was not a slave, but it seemed clear she wasn't anyone's daughter and, equally clearly, no-one's wife. Surely they wouldn't let a young woman sully herself by getting near him? Serving the Roman slave must be the lowliest of tasks, and slightly dangerous. As he thought this, it occurred to him that she may well serve Cauis too.

He had to wait an age until they were alone and he could ask her. She stared at him, adamantly shaking her head. He pressed, desperate, but she wouldn't say anything, dropping her eyes and hurrying away flustered as someone else came back into the hut.

He tried to talk to her more often after that, but didn't bring up Cauis again. When there were few others around she would answer him quietly until he asked her questions about herself. Those questions would upset her.

One day, as she brought him food, she leant close and pressed a scrap of cloth into his hand, out of sight of any others. He looked up, puzzled and she shook her head vehemently, widening her eyes in fear when he started to speak. She quickly fled, and he held the cloth tight until it was clear no one had noticed anything.

He wondered what could be wrapped in it. He kept one hand moving on the grind stone and surreptitiously opened his other hand, letting the cloth fall open. In the dim light it was just a strip of dirty cloth. It seemed to hold nothing. He couldn't imagine what had led her to give it to him, and why it had scared her so much to do so. He looked again, turning it over to check he hadn't dropped something significant, and then the dirt on the cloth—it looked like blood—suddenly resolved into letters.

It was a message in Latin. _Save yourself._

His heart was pounding. He wondered what Cauis meant; Caius must have a plan.

That night, he woke to screams. The pit of his stomach rebelled; he knew those were his lover's sounds. It took both Groan and Abrell to stop his rampage and tie him down.

*

Marcus awoke in pain and confusion. He rolled his head to the side and felt his jaw, numb and swollen, and his tongue stuck to his teeth. He couldn't breathe through his nose. As he tried to move, pain spiking up his side, he realised he was tied fast, his legs bound together and his arms fastened behind him to the pallet. He couldn't sit up and his head swam from trying.

He was desperate to piss, but his shouts brought no one. He seemed to be in a storage hut; enough light got in through the eaves that Marcus could tell when it was full day outside. But still, no one came to him, even when he bellowed, jaw aching, and wrists raw from pulling at the ropes.

Eventually, he had to give in and shame himself, the warmth rapidly cooling in his braccae.

Cottia came. She brought water and oatmeal, and undid one of his arms, carefully keeping out of his reach. He'd been cleverly tied. His wrist was still attached to the pallet and there was not enough slack to reach his other arm, but he could feed himself.

Marcus asked her what had happened last night but she wouldn't speak to him. When he begged her about Cauis, she jerked her head away and wouldn't meet his eyes, obviously terrified. He was shouting at her, panic driving him on, demanding, but she fled the hut. He fell back on the pallet, defeated, in pain and despair.

They kept him there alone for three days. Cottia released his legs and brought him a bucket for his toilet needs, emptying it once a day when she brought water and food. He couldn't reach anything in the hut from his restraints and he couldn't get her to talk to him any more. He couldn't help but ask her, beg her each time she came for news of Cauis. She eventually met his eyes and shook her head. He noticed the tears glittering there.

He wondered again why they were keeping him alive.

He thought the worst thing was not knowing, but when they finally came for him, he realised he was wrong.

*

Outside, they held him down on his back, pulling off his stinking braccae and throwing cold water over him before scrubbing him off roughly. He was turned over for more scrubbing; his arse was gripped and he tried to pull away. Firm hands pushed at him: something was rammed into him, hard and painful—then cold and weird. His squirming struggles were unmercifully restricted as he was picked up forcefully, turned and held, his body convulsing as the water they'd forced into him gushed out. He swallowed back the cries, determined not to shout or scream, as they repeated the awful process. He tasted the tang of iron as he bit down to contain the bubbling horror at what they were doing to him, and what it might mean.

When they hauled him into Belatos's hut, he was hobbled again, shivering in cold and shock; naked except for his feet in their leather wrappings.

Belatos was not gentle, and not quick. Worse, Belatos liked to talk. For all Marcus was starved for conversation, Belatos taunting him was almost harder to endure than the rape of his body. Thrusting into him, Belatos compared him to Cauis—the pretty one—and promised him a similar end if he made any attempt to resist. When Belatos finally finished, Marcus found he had bitten into the skin of his own forearm, blood seeping out of the teeth-marks. When the next man threw him down, he pressed his mouth against the bite and sucked, swallowing down his own blood and bile.

*

It was a full moon. There had been more preparation of foodstuffs than usual for a day or two, and tempers were fraying amongst those around him. He had been worked hard, at night relieving their tension and by day back to grinding grain, until all he could feel were his raw fingertips tingling, and the gritty taste of millstone dust. Cottia had been busy too. At one point, looking harried, she brought him some tastier bread: sweet and nutty, but slightly charred on one side and presumably rejected for whatever feast was planned.

It seemed everyone was abnormally busy. They had a good understanding of a slave's capacity, but the days and nights were pushing him past his limits. Cauis' words came back to him. Save yourself. He had to get away from here, one way or another. He ate the oatmeal, and saved the bread.

He'd been put to working the new, larger, grinding-stones next to the grain store, and the heavy work made him sweat. At first they'd checked on him regularly, but as the day wore on he was increasingly left alone.

He took the chance to rub at the rope binding him with every pass of the millstone, chafing it slowly. Tension caught in his chest with each breath. He startled when Cottia came again to take away the flour. He hoped she hadn't noticed his action or had thought it just his foreigner's technique, but he was worried about the fringes of frayed rope that flapped about him. He was careful to keep her attention away from his hands and tried to hold her gaze, but she looked away, always embarrassed at meeting his eyes.

As night fell, he was still in the grain store, tied up and forgotten. His exhaustion was conquered by the thrill of his fear. Perhaps he would get a chance tonight, if no one came to take him to the headman. Perhaps the celebrations would keep them occupied. Perhaps, perhaps. He kept rubbing at the ropes so that he could break free.

Singing started in the distance. First it was children's fluty voices. Marcus could just make out the familiar refrain about a god who watched over them at night: a creature that flew in the moonlight. From the few snatches that he'd understood, he guessed the repeated word, the god, was an owl.

There was cheering when the music stopped, before a more strident sound started up with a single singer.

As the music and sounds became louder and more rhythmic, he guessed there must be dancing, and struggled to keep his patience. He would have to wait until later—until the dead of night, when he hoped they would be sufficiently drunk and unobservant: not interested in the Roman slave on a night when far more exciting things were happening.

It felt like hours before the music quietened. He was grateful to his own god, Mithras be thanked, that he hadn't been sent for, dragged to the headman's hut or loaned again to someone else's bed. He had been keeping some strands of his bindings connected in case he had to comply with their demands. He hadn't wanted anyone realising that their corn-grinders could be used for this purpose in case he had to wait for another chance. However, he had decided that he would leave tonight whatever happened, body or soul.

It was time. He gritted his teeth and pulled against the ropes, trying to break the last fibres, and practically screamed with frustration when they wouldn't part. He scraped them over the milling stones again and again and chewed at them with his teeth, avoiding his left incisors, still wobbly from the last time he was beaten.

It was completely quiet when he finally managed to tear them free; his wrists were angry and sharply painful whenever his tunic brushed against them. He pushed at the door and felt it resist firmly; as usual, it was closed and barred with a peg on the outside. But he knew the leather hinges on the opposite side were old and worn; they gave way when he hurled his body forwards.

He was petrified at the loud bang the door made crashing open. His breathing was frantic with fear, but he couldn't pause long to see if anyone had heard. He felt a wave of hysteria threaten to have him laughing as he imagined them finding the empty hut. They would not make that mistake twice.

He pushed the door shut again to make it look locked, tucking the leather flaps in, and propping the hinged-side with a stone. He listened all the time; the night sounds made his heart pump wildly, but—so far—no one was guarding him, and no one stirred to see what the noise was.

He could have climbed the fence and squirmed up the earthen banks, but he'd never have been able to cross the scrub in the ditches. There would surely be sentries at the main gates even on feast nights, but he prayed to Mithras that the side gates would be unmanned. That was really the extent of his plan—climb the gates and run.

Hobble.

He slowly limped around the store-hut. The moonlight was much too bright—a curse rather than a blessing. Intermittent clouds blocked it as they scudded-by, allowing him to limp softly to the next cover. He could see no movement as he prepared to set off again, plotting his path towards the side entrance most in shadow from the angled moonlight. He hadn't quite made it to the next shade when the light came bright again, and his heart raced as he tried to speed up.

He made it to the shadow of another hut and waited, mouth open, for his pulse to slow—and for the next cloud. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something else moving, and a whimpering noise, on the far side of the village. As he tensed-up, staring into the gloom, he saw a tall man dragging something— _someone_ —along behind him, heading for the headman's hut.

He didn't know it was Cottia, he told himself, horrified and nauseous. Many of the young women had red hair and a slight build. He stayed, frozen in indecision, legs shaking, as the moonlight came and went. He realised his teeth were chattering and he had to take some action: stay or flee.

It seemed the gods were with him as he made his way, light-of-foot despite his wound (and heavy-heart), to the gate. Now, there was cloud and the cover to mask him.

He could not help. All he could possibly have done in his position was lengthen the torment for them both. They would kill him as they had killed Cauis, and likely kill her as well, and by no means quickly.

Save yourself.

He reached the gate and listened: nothing but the wind. The sounds he made scrambling up—aching arms compensating for his useless leg—were violently loud in his own ears: erratic bangs as he flung himself upwards drowning out the drumbeat of his blood. He swallowed a cry when he caught his hand on something sharp at the top, and fought to pull his bad leg up even as he felt his palm slipping in his own warm blood. Then he was nearly over. The moon appeared abruptly and he dropped to the ground, exposed between the frame of the gate-posts. Gods be with him, there was no one on this gate. He listened hard for anyone walking the perimeter, and waited, anxiously, for the moon to retreat again.

The sky was oddly beautiful: half cloud and half clear. The next cloud to reach the moon was going to be some time. He was more desperate now, and almost risked running in the light, but made himself wait, breathing deeply through his mouth, and licking the blood from his palm. Good cover was far off, and he would soon be in view of the main gates as he dropped from the high ground.

Eventually, a larger cloud approached the moon; he scanned the path ahead, memorising, and at the first dimming into darkness he set off down the hill towards the trees. At any moment he expected the sound of a horn raising the alarm, or men shouting. He couldn't run easily, and he certainly couldn't manage well in the dark, but the path was just discernible, worn smooth where people had plied back and forth to the wood below. He gained cover before the moonlight broke through. He paused for a moment, gulping air, and let the giddy spell pass before setting off again.

He was flinging himself downhill between the trees, thanking all the gods for the broken light and relieved to have got this far, when a loud hoot made him jump and skid to a stop, heart thumping. He reached out to steady himself against a pale trunk, listening, his leg aching. Of course their gods were here too. He must not take for granted his safety in this land, even if he _had_ escaped the village. There were many more villages to pass, and he had nothing to aid him—except half a loaf of bread and a notion to go east.

He rubbed at his thigh, kneading. No-one had heeded the owl's warning; he gave thanks for that fortune. He must press on; fear helped to conquer the pain. He thanked the gods further: for his dark ragged tunic, his adequate footwear, his soldier's training, and the guidance of the stars.

*

It was three nights later when he finally came upon terrain he thought he recognised; his heart lifted, despite the hunger obsessing him. He had travelled by night, setting course by the stars and the track of the moon, glimpsed between ever-growing clouds.

He was careful, but not agile enough to obliterate his trail. He'd made good ground the first night, driven on by panic. After that, the rain seemed to help, and he'd slept well-hidden during the first full daylight, exhausted from the tension. No-one tracked him down.

He was more careful here as he neared Roman rule. The locals would be even more twitchy in these battle-scarred lands. He had subsisted on stringy leaves and what paltry roots he could find, but he ignored the one trapped bird flapping in his path; he feared it would alert people to his presence, even though he was hungry enough to eat it raw.

Still, the fort was a surprise, floating like a mirage when he saw it silhouetted on the hill.

He could barely croak out his rusty Latin to the incredulous sentries until they summoned the commander. It was a dream to shed his filthy clothes and eat meat.

He offered grateful and sincere thanks to the gods, Mithras in particular, and was generous with his offerings. He was careful not to think about what those gods had wanted with Caius.

*

Marcus found he couldn't think on his own. He had to have others around, making demands of him, or he was apt to sit and drift. And that was aside from the moments when he just wanted to sit and cry. But more and more he was alone.

On his own, he unravelled. Freedom, despite receiving so little of it in army life, was what he'd missed when he was enslaved and abused. But freedom regained …

Now freedom meant he lacked an anchor. He felt loose and untethered. He had too much time to dwell: to think about what else slavery took from him.

It had taken his lover. He wasn't allowed to mention that; it was the source of his shame—that, and not bringing him back. Cruel irony, for that was all he could think of, and he couldn't hide his grief.

His health. Of course, his painful escape hadn't helped. There were plans to operate when the foreign surgeon passed through, but no one was promising him anything. Quite the opposite. It was clear from their looks that surgery was going to be an ordeal in itself.

His career. The local doctor thought he could have had a better recovery had he been tended-to in a Roman fort. The permanent limp had robbed him of any future in the army.

His virtue. He told them the truth (mostly) about the practices he and Cauis—the name brought the familiar jolt to his heart—had endured. Some were sympathetic, but he heard the whispers, saw the averted looks again. The abuse of slavery was nothing, but the re-awakened rumours about the two of them... He hadn't had the energy to pretend any more; in his grief he couldn't shake off that shame.

His manhood. He'd told what he could about Cauis's death. They blamed him for Cauis's fate and for not bringing him back. Should he have done more to free himself, to free them both? Or killed himself so as not to give aid to the enemy? They blamed him. Was it worse to have come back alone?

His honour. Citizens he had met since his return saw him as less than a man, and not just because of his leg. He was not someone they wanted their daughters associated with, nor even their sons. Nothing was overt of course, but the grapevine was far-reaching, and efficient at conveying the details of his disgrace.

His peace of mind. Every night he woke up sweating, his leg cramping and gripped by pain, even after the surgery restored some use. He dreamt of his escape, reliving each moment of fear. He dreamt of Cauis, screaming, and stopping screaming. He dreamt of his own screams, swallowed face-down in the chief's hut. He told them nothing of the red-headed girl, but still, he berated himself about Cottia, and dreamt about her, too.

He had nothing left except his faith. No land, no job, no friends, no life.

In despair he turned to distant relatives, writing to any connections he could remember: those of his father in Hispania and of his mother back in Rome. Nothing came from Hispania, and those in Rome gave his letter a frosty answer, clearly distancing themselves from Marcus and any obligations. They did however clarify a connection with another relation. It turned out his father had a brother here in Britannia, estranged from the rest of the family.

Marcus wrote to his Uncle.

 

**Part Three**

 

“Marcus Flavius Aquila. You look... It's good to see you, nephew. You have the look of your mother, though perhaps a hungrier version.”

“Uncle Aquila. Well met. It's good of you to have me.”

“Oh, dear boy, it's an honour to have such a handsome family member under our roof. And just call me Aquila here. Come in and rest, and later you'll meet everyone.”

*

Aquila was old, white-haired, able and humorous. It had been a long time since anyone had made Marcus laugh—made him feel welcome.

“This, dear boy, is where you will sleep.” The room was quite beautiful, if a little small, looking onto a square garden where most of the shrubs were shedding their autumn leaves and revealing the plain lines of the space. Also revealed were a couple of bowers: wooden constructions with benches, semi-shielded from view. Marcus was beginning to work out the use made of these spaces. It wasn't hidden, yet he felt some sense of surprise, perhaps at the inventive ordinariness of it all. “This is your room and yours alone,” Aquila was continuing meaningfully. Marcus nodded, and was thankful for the implications; no-one could follow him here when he needed solitude and peace. Not that he would ever find peace, here nor anywhere else when the raging in his head was uncovered by silence.

Aquila was not shocked by his tale. It was a relief not to face the distaste wrapped up as sympathy that he had suffered from others since he returned. He was aware that this lack of shock was … well, because Aquila had seen, and possibly perpetrated, worse things than Marcus had endured. His Uncle didn't offer up his own story, but it was now clear why he had been estranged. They were in a different world here; despite first appearances this domus was not a place of honour.

Aquila put an arm around his shoulder and led him around the domus, talking expansively and showing him parts he hadn't been awake enough to take in yesterday. He had ended up in a guest room after eating with his uncle and the others who ran Sextus Aurelius's establishment. He hadn't yet met Sextus Aurelius: _he_ was away—a regular occurrence it seemed—maintaining his networks and elevating his station in this booming, Romanising province.

Marcus learned that several of the guards were ex-soldiers like himself, injured in some way and equally lost without their cohorts, but finding purpose and a home in this strangely domestic world where the rules were clear. Board and lodging were part of the package. Time off from duty was given fairly. Pay, unlike in the legions, was regularly paid.

Off-duty guards also had the privilege of access to the bed slaves, apart from a few—the most desirable—who were expressly forbidden. The slaves could not be harmed in any way that affected their value, nor touched when prepared or preparing for guests. Other slaves, from the kitchen and stables and so on, were fair game too, Aquila told him dismissively, “should anyone be remotely interested in them.”

It seemed the major part of Sextus Aurelius's success lay in pretending that this was not a brothel. Marcus fitted in; he was used to pretending. He had the same rules, a good rate of pay, and a home of sorts. His particular duties were to deal with new slaves; there was quite a turnover, and novelty was prized as in any brothel.

Marcus wasn't sure what happened to discarded slaves. He gathered that Sextus Aurelius had arrangements with other brothels in other towns—an ever-expanding network of business interests.

Here, they were refreshingly candid about his skills and why he was valued. He was good with the guards. He had been on the receiving end of a number of vices and knew what could be endured. He spoke a couple of the languages, and had a gift for getting people to do what he wanted.

Well, except for accepting him back into polite society and giving him back his army career.

*

Marcus looked at the Briton before him and saw Cottia. He breathed in sharply, blinking her image away, and looked again at the surly boy. He wasn't really a bit the same: no red in his hair, taller, and an ugly expression to replace the girl's compassion. But there was something. Something in the lines of his face, in his grey-blue eyes and large ears, summoned her spirit.

Marcus began to prepare him for their guests. It seemed that the man, Esca, had been with neither man nor woman. Marcus was amazed. Esca was surely not that young, and yet untouched? It was rare to find a virgin girl, but all the boys who came to the domus were experienced—though not in the exact skills they were soon going to need. Perhaps the northern tribes were different? If the young men did not run together or use slaves (a practice he'd rather not remember), he had heard of customs of using animals to preserve young women from pregnancies when they were too young. The man, Esca, was vehement in denying that suggestion.

Perhaps he was impotent? Marcus inspected the piercings—healing well—and made him masturbate. Esca seemed to know what was required, but his penis refused to stiffen. He kept going; his eyes, sullen and haughty, stayed on Marcus. Marcus was ready to let him stop—there were, after all, plenty of guests who would never require an erection from their bed-partner—when Esca, staring, made a small sound. Marcus held his gaze; it didn't take long after that.

Esca was spirited; he would be the perfect combination for some of their guests, once he was broken-in. Marcus could sense the finely-balanced point at which he had given in. He would undertake this training personally.

Esca was barely touched in a further way: no scars, and merely one set of blue bands on an arm, and none on his torso. What tribe could afford to keep a young man unmarked by battle? Perhaps Esca had just been lucky in gaining no scars on his too-thin but lithely-muscular body, or perhaps the tribes further north were less inclined to cover themselves with the blue marks of their involvements. Marcus could admit that the breadth of his knowledge was limited, but Esca would give no explanation.

Marcus felt a glimmer of interest. Esca was not going to be easy. He must tell Sextus Aurelius about his unusual acquisition; the young man was a bonus that made a bargain of the high price paid for the two virgin girls. Meanwhile, he would keep him here, like the young women, in the heart of the complex, with only reliable Greyda and his most trusted guards in attendance.

*

Esca, dressed-up and eyes darkened like the other bed-slaves, was an asset to the domus. Displayed in white to indicate his status, he attracted a lot of attention. Curious guests eyed him, and one or two were permitted to get a little nearer—provided he had enough of the sedative in his system

Marcus brought him out sparingly on evenings when there would be a well-behaved gathering, and guarded him benevolently. He didn't want any guests getting too enthusiastic with the new prize; they could touch him, but not take him into the private rooms. Slowly, Esca was learning to touch them in return, but no-one could fuck him yet. Sextus Aurelius was biding his time before the rumoured Governor's visit.

While doped, Esca lacked the fire of their usual daily interactions. He was oddly affectionate, almost seeming to crave the touch that he couldn't allow himself in the sober quiet of his room. Even there, he had changed; he had stopped fighting Marcus, physically or mentally. He had become almost friendly. Marcus wondered if he'd accepted his fate, or if he was just lonely. It was unusual to keep someone apart like this for so long, but the prize of a Governor's visit was worth the extra effort.

In their daily sessions, Esca was beginning to share some of the life he'd lived before. He'd even managed to coax out some of Marcus's secrets. At first Marcus had been concerned at what he'd let slip, sure Esca was trying to learn about his enemy. There had been a look from Esca, when he'd worked out that Marcus had been a slave, which Marcus had had trouble interpreting. Later, he decided that it was genuine interest, since Marcus's past was of no use to Esca here.

He was teaching Esca to use his mouth. The sessions when he trained Esca began to seem separate from the rest of his life—and seemingly from Esca's. Even without the potion, during their private sessions, it was as if Esca was someone else during the mechanics of sex; there was no fire in his eyes. The rest of the time Esca was alert, talking and arguing with passion about everything, his eyes sparkling with triumph whenever Marcus hesitated. He felt a growing affection for the man—like a brother. He was even more surprised that it sometimes seemed to be reciprocated.

Aquila was happy when he brought Esca out for evening gatherings, and pleased by his demeanour. He noticed Marcus's frown at the praise.

Marcus explained, “He is full of sparks and fire; this docile man here is not Esca, but the potion.”

Aquila laughed. “Indeed? The potion suppresses aggression, but it does not conjure what is not already there.” He turned to Marcus. “Will we ever be able to use him without it do you think, and capture his fire?”

“I think it may take a long time.” Marcus was suddenly sure he didn't want to see Esca tamed in here.

Aquila patted his arm. “You, my boy, will succeed I think.”

Marcus carried on watching Esca.

He did not neglect his other charges. The young women's virginities had been sold for good prices. He watched them too, judging how they were taking their training. Both were aware of their fortune; there were many worse places to end up than Sextus Aurelius's domus. Even so, one of them was biddable, making the most of her comforts here, whilst the other still required the potion to take the floor. He sometimes found himself watching her, draped over one of the guests in a parody of passion. He began to wonder if his need for revenge was finally sated.

The night Placidus tried to push Esca to his hands and knees, Marcus reacted in an instant. Truth be told, he was glad of a chance to eject the smooth-faced bully. Placidus's lofty disdain for Marcus was palpable whenever he visited.

Marcus spoke politely, reminding Placidus of the house rules. He was happy when Placidus resisted; he enjoyed twisting his arm behind his back.

Later, he remembered the emotion on Esca's face, bleeding through the potion's hold. Fear.

*

Marcus mentally listed the things he needed to deal with if he was to have uninterrupted time with Esca. He strode around the villa allocating tasks and checking on arrangements, ignoring the pain in his leg when he moved faster than normal. The pain was a good antidote to the strange, singing feeling in his head.

He hurried from the bathhouse to his room and made his preparations. He was generous with the herbs on his altar and paused before them for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

He forced himself to be honest with his gods. This was not a chore but a task, a ritual, to be undertaken with care. He felt moved, chastened, that Esca had begged this of him.

He may be being honest with the gods, but he wasn't sure what this meant to himself.

It wasn't the anticipation of sex that was filling him with this feeling. He could have whatever he wanted any day or night from any of the domus, and from a number of the townsfolk should he desire it—which he didn't. Sex had become his trade as much as any of the slaves he trained and he could perform on cue whenever necessary, but he rarely sought it out for his own gratification. He knew the part his past played in that, and had made his peace with it. Those nightmares had stopped.

The feeling was partly from the subterfuge; he couldn't imagine the penalty for being found out, for having stolen _this_ from the domus. The other part was that Esca—proud and detached Esca—had asked this of him.

Esca had shown his fear and his need, and trusted Marcus to take care of him.

He looked around and began the ritual to send his prayers out. He made sure to include all the standard obeisances and remembrances and then paused again. He offered Esca's virginity as a precious gift, long-protected and honoured, and here given up willingly—or at least in a chosen fashion.

He asked forgiveness for the potential sacrilege when the same gift was offered again by Sextus Aurelius and the Governor, and promised to substitute a further offering in its place in honour of his own part in the ritual.

He remembered the look of fear in Esca's eyes. He promised to take care of him.

He breathed in the smoke.

*

Kneeling between Esca's white thighs, Marcus touched his forehead and muttered the dedication again. Louder, he said, “Hold your legs open.” His voice had gone hard. He was carrying them both through this; Esca had refused his offer of the doping potion.

He looked Esca full in the eyes. There was a glimmer of light there, a glimpse of fire. He held Marcus's gaze as he opened his legs further, determination in the way his jaw clenched, and acceptance as his eyes half-closed, acquiescing to Marcus's underlying request. Marcus still hesitated, holding back despite the rising desire in his guts, until Esca actually spoke.

“Do it, Marcus.” His voice was urgent.

Marcus moved then, slowly pressing. His cock pushed and slipped—oily-wetness making it difficult to get any purchase—until he adjusted, hauling Esca's hips upwards and pushing again, hearing Esca's determined swallowing as he slid slowly into him, pink against pink.

“Breathe,” he said, and tried to follow his own instructions. He didn't normally worry about fucking the slaves, but this felt different; he didn't _normally_ flout the rules. He took another breath. “Remember how to relax yourself; push against me.”

Esca was looking away but he felt the pressure ease up a little. He pushed further in. “Good,” he panted, feeling heat run up his body. “That's good. This way you won't tear.”

Esca caught his eyes briefly then looked down, trying to see; he didn't flinch at the sight of Marcus penetrating him. Marcus pulled back a little before pushing in completely, taking him. When they were firmly connected Marcus paused for a moment, gathering himself as they both got their breath, feeling Esca surround him.

He started to move, rolling his hips. Esca grasped his shoulders as he supported Esca around the waist. He timed his thrusts with Esca's breaths, then slowed them down a little, managing to take Esca's breathing down with him.

It became more fluid as he rocked against Esca, too close to look at him. He felt Esca's arms wrapped around him, and Esca's hot breath on his neck, occasionally hitching. He stroked the man's sides and remembered to give instructions. “Tighten up; feel what happens.”

The answering clench made it difficult to move but intensified the feelings in his cock. He shuddered. “That can make them come more quickly if they're near. Now relax.”

Esca took a moment to comply. Marcus was surprised when Esca leant backwards away from him. The movements got easier, his cock sliding in and out of that warm grip. Esca looked up into Marcus's face, studying him.

Blue eyes held him whilst he kept up an even rhythm, tense and tight. There was nothing else.

A strange thought came to him. He imagined Esca welcoming him into a warm home, kissing him softly on the lips and moving away again as though it was a normal event, like welcoming a husband back from the fields. His gut clenched and he _wanted_.

He stopped himself, and reached for Esca's cock. It hardened as Esca lay back, letting go and closing his eyes. Holding himself still, he fisted Esca quickly but softly, until he was arching upwards. A few more strokes had Esca making a strangled sound and he came, pulsing around Marcus's cock, head tipped backwards. Marcus shifted and gripped his hips, thrusting a few times before pulling out, spilling his semen over Esca's stomach.

His knee was hurting. When he raised his head Esca was looking at him strangely. Marcus had an urge to lean forwards and kiss him. But no—this had been for his gods—and, in a way, for Esca.

He reached for the cloth to clean them up; he mustn't leave any evidence to betray them.

*

Marcus heard a thud. He was already on edge; the tension of the Governor's visit had bled through the whole household. It was amplifying his own fear: of giving away their theft, of Esca, of himself, of the gods even.

It had hurt to watch. He had tried not to see Esca, doped again and compliant, beautiful, draped over the distinguished man. He turned away from the view of Esca walking unsteadily with a guard at his other side, soiled but stoic. He didn't know where Esca found the strength. Sometimes it was as if Esca was taken over—someone else, mute and unfeeling.

Esca's appeal to Marcus had broken something inside him. He knew it sometimes happened with captives and slaves, this identification and trust, but Esca had not seemed like one to whom that would apply. He was so proud and haughty and … distant. The plea, the personal connection, had made Marcus betray his own, sanctioned only by his private pact with the gods.

Perhaps it was because he was leaving that he'd allowed this weakness. The haughty Briton had reminded him strongly of his past, and, in trusting Marcus, had seemed to see into the core of him. Marcus had been helpless to resist.

There was a noise. The rustle was just outside his window, and Marcus was up and grabbing an ankle before he even noticed the twinge in his leg. Some warrior reflexes never died.

The man kicked out, catching his jaw. Marcus cursed, holding on and pulling hard until they were grappling on the floor of his room, the man's oversized tunic making it difficult to pin him down. For a moment he hoped it was someone else as the blows caught him and he fought back.

*

He had thought himself shocked at Esca's betrayal.

Esca had turned his head aside and said, breathing with difficulty, “ _Honour?_ I hate you and your Roman honour. It is meaningless to me.”

Esca's words had bitten into him, hard. Marcus had pulled his head up by the hair and slammed it down onto the floor. “I treated you well. You are a slave yet I tried to give you aid.”

Esca had snarled. “You keep me in a cell and let men rape me for their pleasure. I am a prisoner of war and it is my duty to my people to escape from you. You know this for _you_ have done it too.”

Marcus had felt his blood pound as he stripped the belt from Esca's waist. “I know that your people are dead. You belong to Sextus Aurelius now and will never escape from here.” Marcus had Esca's hands bound and was hauling him to his feet.

“My people were killed by murderous soldiers like you, and you'd better kill me now if you think I won't try to escape again”.

“Death is too good for you. The first penalty for trying to steal Sextus Aurelius's property is castration”. Marcus pulled him out of his door and along a corridor. “We will see tomorrow if that cools your desire to escape. You might also lose your teeth and nails—that will compromise your ability to fight, though it would be a pity to destroy your looks; you are quite the sought-after property at the moment.”

Esca had hissed, “Take from me what you can, Roman. I will not give you anything willingly.”

Marcus had said no more until they got to Esca's door. He untied his hands and told him to take off the Governor's tunic and shoes. Esca had flung them at him and stood, naked and challenging. Marcus shut the door on him and turned the key.

Now he paced his room.

Memories flooded his vision. He kept thinking of his own escape from the Britons: the moonlit night, the pain in his leg, Cottia's whimpers. He had been used and beaten, almost broken by Cauis's death, but he had never lost the will to escape. Did all slaves feel like that? After a short time, most of the slaves here needed little guarding, no matter what their fate. Maybe they knew that they could never escape for long, or that any life they could hope for outside would be worse. Here, they were fed and warm. But Esca... Esca was different.

His words circled in Marcus's mind. Despite what Esca had said, coiled with anger and his escape thwarted, he _had_ given something willingly. He had confessed his fear, and trusted Marcus to look after him.

And Marcus had promised the gods to take care of him.

*

The barge was rocking gently in the current as they neared the river-bank.

Marcus held Esca close and listened to his breathing deepen. Esca's eyes were still smudged with deep kohl and his eyelashes darkened against pale cheeks. Looking down, Marcus could see the gold stud against a backdrop of freckles on his nose: a large nose, and the only part of his face that prevented him being a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman—aside from the slight beard beginning to glisten at his chin. Marcus gazed at him for a moment, revelling in the opportunity to look unchallenged. He felt affection clench his chest.

Esca's body-weight sagged against his shoulder and Marcus adjusted their positions to make him comfortable, letting Esca's head rest against his collarbone, and draping the palla across him.

If he was honest with himself he felt more than affection; that was what had prompted him to risk this madness.

Esca had needed even more persuading, sensing a hidden motive and fearing some strange trap; Marcus had had to argue repeatedly with the Briton. Esca was still alternately nervy then sullen, and having to dress—and behave—as a woman had not helped.

The farmer on the barge interrupted his reverie. “Got yourself a fine one there,” he said. “Spirited and strong—they make the best wives and mothers. Happen you'll have a fine brood before long.” He chuckled to himself, apparently not needing an answer, as Marcus tried to gather his wits, gaping at the man. “Now you make sure you look after her, young man.” He smiled and nodded at Marcus as he bent to gather his belongings, whilst the barge pulled in to a jetty. Marcus collected himself enough to say, “I will.”

When they resumed their voyage Marcus stared unseeing at the river. He was thinking again of the morning after the Governor's visit. The whole night he'd spent fuming, unable to sleep, remembering Esca's furious words and reliving his own desperate escape. By the morning he'd made his decision.

In truth he owed Esca nothing; he was using him to discharge an earlier debt, one that would never be paid. But he was also serving his own interests; he wanted Esca with him, for as long as he'd stay. He wasn't naïve enough to be unaware of the price he was weaving around Esca's neck, the debt he was laying on him. Perhaps Esca would never be able to overcome the fact he'd been enslaved. So be it. In that case he would let him go, but he was fairly sure that there was something in Esca that responded to him, and not just the Briton's clear lust for life.

Esca had gaped at him when he'd made the proposal. “Why are you not punishing me as you threatened? Why would you do _this_?” Then he'd nodded, knowingly, and said, “I see. You want me just for yourself.”

Marcus had denied it.

Esca had lifted an eyebrow. “You would steal me from Sextus Aurelius? The punishment is castration, I believe.”

Marcus was stung into replying, “I promised the gods that I would take care of you.”

Esca had swallowed and looked away. “I think you honoured that promise.”

Marcus said, “I am leaving in a week.  I have inherited a farm in Hispania and will be far away from Britannia.  I would take you with me. Once away from here it will be your choice where you go. You may come with me, and stay for as long as you wish to.” He paused, but Esca said nothing, looking at the floor.

“I will need your answer soon.” He had left Esca then, and made excuses to the domus, keeping Esca locked in his room whilst the bruises faded.

He didn't know what game the gods were playing, but they clearly had some purpose plaiting their lives together like this. The echoes of his past resonated loudly.

Esca moved a little against him and Marcus froze for a moment before twisting his head to look down. Blue-grey eyes blinked open to look at him, pupils shrinking in the sunlight as a range of expressions ran over Esca's face, as transparent as the dawn. There was confusion first, then the brief recoil of fear, replaced by annoyance at their close physical arrangement.

Esca maintained the wifely pose yet somehow absented himself from it, tension in his controlled poise. Marcus felt the withdrawal like a physical blow, and spoke quickly to cover his urge to tighten his arm and hold Esca closer. “Halfway there. Sleep more if you can.” Esca's gaze didn't leave his and Marcus struggled to keep his own face neutral, before Esca released him by closing his eyes. A moment later he felt Esca relax against him. Marcus couldn't prevent the sudden smile that cracked his face as he turned to look back at the opposite shore, further away now as the river widened.

They had spoken freely only briefly as they travelled. There was the danger of Esca's disguise being found out, and even alone in the Inn's small bedroom they took care not to be overheard. Both of them were nervous of the possibility of capture; Esca, though he frowned, was easily persuaded of the virtue of maintaining their disguise as a couple for one more leg of this journey.

For all Esca said 'you' when they had talked of the next—shipboard—stage of their travels, he had agreed to cross the sea with Marcus. He would be safer out of Britannia Marcus casually said 'we', ignoring the flutter of his heart each time.

Esca had allowed Marcus to shave him, hidden behind the door of their room. Marcus's chest swelled with the memory. Esca had startled at the vision of Marcus with his sharpened blade, hand on Esca's throat. Marcus had not known what was wrong when tears glinted in Esca's eyes. Surely Esca didn't think he was about to die—Marcus could have killed him a dozen times?

Haltingly, Esca had told him of his mother's fate, killed thus by his father's blade to spare her from capture. Esca had called his mother the eagle of their clan. Whatever that was, it seemed to be a role he too had been prepared for, until his clan had all perished. He had ended his tale sobbing, in Marcus's arms, before recovering himself and gruffly ordering the shaving to proceed.

They had both been exhausted then, from lack of sleep and tension; they had fallen asleep side by side after a meal eaten in the privacy of the room. Marcus had woken in the night to find his arm draped over Esca and the other man deep asleep. In the morning, he'd opened his eyes to Esca examining the carved Eagle he wore round his neck. Esca had dropped it quickly, and swung out of bed.

Breaking their fast, Marcus had told him about the carving and about his father leaving, and Esca had given him a small smile.

Every time he caught sight now of Esca sitting, scowling, with his trunk and belongings, Marcus wanted to grin. Such a short conversation, but here was the result: he had his Briton, almost. Esca, free, could choose to leave and go wherever he liked; Marcus was becoming surer that he could persuade him to stay once they reached foreign shores. Once in Hispania, he thought, they would both be different: free, or as free as a once-slave ever feels.

Esca had been right: he did want Esca to himself, and he did want him as more than a companion. But he would not force him; it would be Esca's choice alone. It would perchance be a strange choice to stay with a man who had enslaved him. But Esca knew about Marcus's own past, and Marcus had caught the glimpse of sympathy. Marcus thought-–could feel in his marrow-–that something new had been forming between them. It had begun in Sextus Aurelius's house, a small seed that had sprouted with their escape, and must now be tended carefully if it was to grow and flower.

His heart beat a little faster as he pursued his errand, bargaining a passage for both of them on a ship filled with sheep for company. The squawk of seagulls sounded triumphant as they wheeled in the wind.

*  


There was the luxury of a cabin, tiny but adequate. Once they left the shore behind he felt weariness wash over him as the anxiety ebbed. He lay in the hammock and dozed; Esca took off his woman's garb and put on the braccae they'd packed for him and stretched out on the floor.

They had both been tense since Marcus had dressed Esca in women's clothing and walked him out under his guards' noses. Even before then, they had been tense. For several days he had had to bring Esca out, for the use of the guests. To avoid raising the concerns of Aquila and the others, he couldn't protect him from the occasional evening; the prize, plucked, was still a precious commodity. And now Esca did not have the protection of the white garments when someone chose him.

Marcus had had to turn away at the sight of Esca in someone else's arms. Doped again, he was responsive to their requests. Esca had agreed that this was necessary to their preparations, but Marcus found himself chewing his lip in agitation. He told himself it was the fear that Esca would blurt something out, or turn and fight off their advances. In truth he knew that he was jealous. He needed to find a way to protect Esca from the demands of the domus, before he himself gave them away by beating a guest—sampling his wares—to pulp. He lit on the answer: a fever. No guest, no matter how curious to sample the new goods, would want to catch something.

A fever was also a useful cover for leaving Esca locked up on his own, and for dissuading anyone else from visiting his room. Marcus alone had taken Esca his meals, claiming he'd already been exposed and was suffering no ills.

Finally, it had been the day before Marcus's departure. He'd taken Esca to an Inn across town where he wasn't known, and paid enough for _himself and the lady_ not to be disturbed, and for an escort to the coach in the early morning. He himself had quietly slipped from the Inn, returned to the domus, and loudly celebrated his leaving. He bid Aquila—and anyone else who might be travelling the world—to come and visit him in his new Spanish inheritance.

He'd hoped his instructions about Esca would ensure that no one would notice the man's absence for a day—possibly two, if they all worried enough about the fever. Unfortunately, Esca's absence was noted in the morning by the caring Greyda, who had compassionately taken him breakfast. Marcus was agitated enough to not have to feign shock.

He despaired with them over the duplicity of Britons, and how this one had taken him in with his fever. To be convincing, Marcus had had to stay and interrogate a few guards himself. He finally got away, leaving them to organise the search, and found Esca at the coaching-inn, grey-faced and quietly frantic.

It only then occurred to Marcus that Esca had no coin to pay the coach himself, nor to pay for food. Esca looked exceedingly grateful to see him; Marcus knew why, but still allowed himself to bask a little in the glow.

*

He could tell that Esca was stiff from lying on the floor, and offered to massage his shoulders. Esca's face took on its closed look, and he declined.

“I mean only to ease your tension,” Marcus said. “I will not break my promise. You are free now to choose your own bed-partners.”

“I have seen you look at me,” Esca challenged.

“I have not denied it, Esca,” he said. “I find your body fair—and your character noble. But still I promise: I will not touch you, unless _you_ desire it.”

Esca had relented then, cautiously allowing Marcus to knead his shoulders, and then repaying the favour, showing a talent for balance as the ship's movements became more pronounced in the swell.

*

The almighty crash woke him from his dreams. Esca had long-since climbed in the hammock with him, the swaying of the ship in the gathering storm making them both ill. The alarming movement had felt better in the hammock, but now it was violent.

The noise of timber rending barely rose above the storm's howling winds. Esca was awake, a rigid presence in his arms. They had to shout at each other to be heard, even pressed together as they were.

The cabin lurched to the side, then slowly rolled over. Marcus's packs toppled around and the doorway appeared above their heads. Esca looked terrified; Marcus felt his own heart pounding. Esca was pointing upwards and Marcus nodded.

Somehow, they hauled each other through the doorway, the up and down motion of the ship making it hard to coordinate their movements. They managed to stumble along the enclosed corridor, now giddily on its side and tilting downwards, more with each roll. Water began to slosh through the entryway. Marcus pushed Esca up as the floor tipped away, then Esca was grabbing him, helping him through as the tide of water and debris poured through.

He was shouting at Esca to hold onto something when the wave took them both.

Water was everywhere, cold, ferocious, pounding the living out of him until he couldn't breathe. He'd held on for so long until he couldn't feel his fingers, clinging to Esca and a wooden beam. Each wave—unpredictable and violent in the darkness—assaulted him with its salty blow. He couldn't feel his body and had given up holding on at all, even to Esca.

He'd ceased to think about Esca's life or his own. He didn't have the energy to thank his gods for his life so far, nor to berate them for waving the notion of freedom, of possible joy, under his nose before snatching it away. The gods may be in disagreement, and his life—and Esca's—were merely booty to be fought over. Part of him idly wondered if Mithras would get his due after all these years; he almost cursed Neptune for playing dirty. But it was Neptune's hands they were in now.

*

The heaving feeling took him right through waking up with his hands and feet tied. He had a panicky sense of having been here before. His guts emptied onto the ground next to him, bile burning his nose and coughs bringing his jailers running; his panic peaked as consciousness returned.

It was happening again.

He was captured. He was being held by some heathen barbarians talking over him in unintelligible speech. This could not be true. He had only ever tried to do right by the gods, and when right wasn't clear he had held a fine line between revenge and compassion. Surely no god could ask more of him than that?

Yet he was a slave again, working the fields and picking rocks for another group of incomprehensible goat-smelling farmers, another tightly-knit village of large men and not enough women. His gods had spurned him.

Gardrake and his son were his new owners. They had quickly worked out he was a Roman from his accent, and had questioned him, haltingly. He asked about Esca, but they shook their heads. They asked him about the Eagle round his neck. He told them, but they didn't understand him.

They weren't unkind.

At first he was too exhausted to think about getting away. The low wall they were building was shades of grey, lichens and mosses staining the limestone. Newer stones gleamed in a layer at the top; they added to this seam daily, working along in an ancient pattern, not worrying about the soil still stuck fast. The rain would come.

Marcus kept losing time, not sure where he was. He stared at the ground. An animal skull lay there, soil spilling from its various holes. It called to mind all the lives lost on the ship: the sheep, weighed down by their warm fleeces; the sailors. Esca. There'd been no survivors.

Marcus sat and wept. Next to the skull, strange white flecks were mingled into the peaty loam, and the grass through his tears sang green against the bone.

Gardrake let him be.

Clearing the field gave more space for the thin grasses to grow on the flat side of the river; winter grains and hay kept this settled village and its pale cattle alive. The low wall they were building wasn't going to stop the cattle getting in, but the young boys were used to the task of herding them, shouting, and whacking with sticks longer than they were. The cattle were docile even when they could see the attractive new grass greening the meadow.

There was purpose in this life. Joy and pain coloured the lives around him as the season changed.

Marcus could barely feel it.

One young man, working alongside, looked so like Esca that sometimes Marcus would find himself staring.

The fields were almost identical to the ones he'd worked before, hummocky with rushes and moss, and filled with limestone: from chips as small as your fingernail to boulders as high as a hut. The younger children played at climbing, clinging like bats to the soft rock and daring each other to climb higher and jump from the tops.

As the days wore on, he paid more attention to them; their speech patterns were easier to understand than the gruff and guarded adults, and he began to make out some of their word patterns. They had a different accent but many similar words to those in one of his postings; he'd always been good at picking up dialects. But he kept quiet about what he understood. They had given up trying to talk to him much, just indicating where they wanted him to work.

He wasn't badly treated; Gardrake and his sons shared the draughty hut and thin skins, and he was fed almost as much as the other men. They kept him close, surrounded by large men ready to intervene if he strayed off the small square allotted or shirked his tasks. They let him rest when they did; if he was excluded from the camaraderie they at least shared their water flasks and thin ale. All in all, it was better than his first enslavement. He couldn't take much comfort in that, for the grief was the same.

He thought often of Esca—of the slave in his power in the domus, and the man in his arms on the barge.

He remembered the different shades of Esca's anger, so closely matching his own when first enslaved: the bitterness, the fear, the sullenness and the despair. His own response was to turn his anger to revenge. But Esca had had something new; a fierce ability to preserve himself amidst the filth around him. _He_ had been something other.

Marcus ate and drank and worked and slept. Sometimes he prayed.

No-one really bothered him or tried to engage him. No one fucked him. It was a life, of sorts.

*

There was more chatter on the way to the fields in the morning; two young men were singing, trying to remember the words of an old song. An older man joined in, his voice sweetening the music and in full possession of the words. The others deferred to him, enjoying the song as his voice soared.

Marcus found he could almost follow the weaving of a tale of two young lovers separated by family circumstances. Each chorus nearly brought them together only to have another incident get in their way, with the lovers patiently ageing.

The group had reached the fields but stood together as the song wound on; the final verse, which all knew well and joined in loudly, had a magnificent reunion and a wedding of the two elders. He hung back, watching the group of men sing the final notes and then slap each other on the back, laughing. They were particularly slapping one of the young men, who was looking bashful and trying to shake them off. They made remarks about a wedding that had him embarrassed and blushing. The banter seemed good natured and one or two even smiled at Marcus, almost including him.

He found himself wondering about Cottia, her blue-grey eyes averted, and whether she'd ever overcome her position in the village, and found happiness. The women here apparently chose their mates and had a say over their lives—no one was in quite the position Cottia had been. Indeed, Marcus's status as a slave seemed unusual, though there appeared to be precedents from the way they talked; it was something that people did for a term of service to earn their futures.

*

The influx of others was sudden. One day his small village laboured as normal; the next, large numbers were arriving, making camps along the meadows by the river, singing and cooking into the long summer evening.

The next day his whole village went down to join in. Marcus watched the dancers, spotting one or two of his villagers joining in some of the wilder dances that the young people were doing. It seemed the whole world was here, come to his village to celebrate midsummer.

He was bound, lightly, and Gardrake or one of his friends was always near. He had no desire to run; he had no-one to save, and nowhere to go. He was content to watch the festivities as they came to a crescendo the first night.

People were meeting up with old friends and family connections from further afield. There was endless singing, the songs getting more lewd as the night wore on and small jars of liquor were passed around. The men gave him some mead, and let him have a taste of the fiery liquid they called water of life.

On the second day a more-formal area was arranged, men collecting on one edge of an area and women on the other, watching performances in the middle. A bard told stories, and introduced singers, dancers and other performers. Everyone seemed to take a turn and the audience were enthusiastic. Around this area, other activities continued; the cooking, trading, dancing and flirting went on all day, but Marcus was happy to stay here and watch.

The head of the ceremony had a beautiful voice. He told a long story of a giant and a hunter, holding his audience gripped in silence, waiting for the climax. Later, when a number of the womenfolk sang a haunting love song, Marcus felt tears in his eyes.

*

The religious nature of the dance was clear from the outset. The moment had been chosen well; the audience was rapt, ready for high seriousness as dusk finally began to darken the sky. The man (Marcus wasn't sure if he was a dancer or a priest) had immense grace and poise, and the Eagle-head markings added to the other-worldly effect as he swooped around the field, black and white clothes fluttering. This audience clearly held the Eagle in high regard; even Marcus could believe he saw him fly.

There was a collectively held breath as the Eagle danced to its climax; a spiralling ascendance that coiled magnificently into one spot, and ended in a tableau of flight, wings aloft and head high, conqueror of the air.

There was a satisfied sigh from all around him when the man dropped his arms, back to being mortal; the crowd applauded, solemn. He took off his headdress and acknowledged the applause. Marcus thought how like Esca he looked from a distance. His face was smeared with soot, but he had the same nose and hair.

The men of the village sitting around him had started arguing the prospects of one of them winning any of the next day's horse and chariot races. Marcus could understand a little of it, but was startled when the chatter died away and the Eagle was standing in front of them. He looked closer. Blue-grey eyes were fixed upon him. The Eagle reached towards him saying, “You are alive, my friend!” Gardrake stood up, blocking the man's arm, as Marcus gasped, “Esca?”

They seemed to respect Esca, not touching him directly, but not letting him get nearer to Marcus. Esca and Gardrake were arguing, but the shock of seeing Esca had deafened Marcus and he could only stand, trying to see around Gardrake's bulk. He caught glimpses of black and white, and heard Esca's voice, firm, whilst Gardrake's rose in anger. Esca peered around and said “Hold on, my friend,” and was gone, back over the field.

He was left to his churning thoughts as the men around him went back to arguing about horses, passing round their liquor now that it was dark.

Esca was alive. The sheer joy of it made his knees weak.

Someone was lighting a small bonfire and he was made to help fetch wood.

Esca had been pleased to see him, had called him friend. Even that small thing made him happy.

Fires had been lit all around the fields, and everywhere people celebrated through the shortest night. No-one was taking much notice of him, and for that he was grateful. He hunched on the ground and hugged his head to his knees, feeling the tears slip down his face and soak into his braccae, until sleep came.

The next day he woke stiff and tense. He was put to work early on, but he couldn't help but look for Esca, staring around at the crowds of villagers who were watching the races and the weddings and the children's dancing. There was no sign of him.

For the first time since arriving here Marcus thought seriously about how to escape. He mulled over what he could do and where he could go. He wondered where Esca was and with whom he was living. Remembering his performance—the Eagle, soaring—he wondered _what_ Esca was.

Gardrake and a group of men had left, talking with some other villagers who'd brought the bard with them. Marcus was left, working with his son and friend to clear up from the previous day.

Marcus began to feel invigorated. The shock of seeing Esca had woken him up. He started to plan. It would be relatively easy to slip the actual bonds they had on him, but what would he do next?

He was surprised from his musings when a couple of his villagers came to get him. They led him toward another other group of men, clustered by some boulders nearer the river. Among them, Gardrake and one of his own elders were arguing forcefully with each other. Even at a distance, Marcus caught some of their meaning and looked up in panic. Surely they weren't going to sell him? He knew that _everything_ was being traded here, but he'd been resigned to his fate in Gardrake's village before seeing Esca. The idea that life could get worse brought back unpleasant memories.

He should have escaped last night. He had escaped from his previous captivity at mid-summer. Had that been a message from the gods which he'd been too fuddled—by seeing Esca—to understand? But surely the gods had sent Esca too?

Then he saw Esca amongst the group. He stared at him; Esca looked up and smiled when he caught Marcus's eyes. He looked strained.

The two groups settled again and one of Esca's companions began to talk; it wasn't long before he was interrupted by a furious cacophony of voices. Marcus didn't understand half of what they were saying. Both sets of villagers were arguing amongst themselves as well as with the other group. A number looked scandalised and several intrigued; clearly, this was some novelty.

Finally, the bard made them pause, and Esca spoke. He explained to Marcus the proposal they had been brokering. They were arguing over whether there could be a price for Marcus's head—whether he could buy his freedom.

Marcus was astonished; Esca had clearly come up with this idea and persuaded his village to back him. When Marcus made no reply, the two groups of villagers began again, getting louder and louder, berating each other. The bard had managed to keep them in some kind of order, but Gardrake was belligerent and stubborn. He kept gesturing at Marcus, insisting on something that was exasperating Esca's companions.

Esca looked over at him frequently; cleaned-up, his face was unreadable. He had stopped interpreting for Marcus, looking increasingly angry. There was finally some kind of agreement. Esca turned to him and silence fell. What came next surprised Marcus. Gardrake was demanding a high price for his Roman, and would not let him go until it was paid. Esca asked if he himself could go to Marcus's lands in Hispania to raise a ransom for Marcus: to sell on his behalf some of his new lands, or otherwise realise his assets.

Marcus's heart soared, then sank, in the space of a second. That Esca would offer such a thing amazed him. But, it could not be done.

He explained to Esca the reason. The family retainers wouldn't have recognised Marcus if he went himself; there was certainly no way he could think of to persuade the people currently looking after the place to take _Esca's_ instructions. All Marcus had as proof of his identity was his own scarred body and his memories. He had no seal or token that would be adequate; any other proof was at the bottom of the sea. Not even the Eagle round his neck would do, though his father had carved it for him: no-one knew the trinket but him.

Esca looked at him, resignation on his face. Gardrake was being vehement about something—it was clear he would not part with Marcus today for the sake of promises for tomorrow.

The discussions had reached their sorry conclusion. Marcus felt light-headed—with hope snatched away, and with Esca's commitment as his champion. Esca looked—

Esca suddenly broke in to say something to the gathering. A man, clearly someone who had befriended him, put a hand on his arm as if discouraging him, shaking his head and talking loudly. Esca carried on, making his case. Gardrake sneered, but an elder from Marcus's village shouted Gardrake down and seemed to back Esca up.

Marcus thought he had some inkling of what was said, but his brain rebelled, doubting his grasp of the language. Surely that couldn't be right?

Another silence fell and Esca spoke to Marcus. The villagers listened despite the fact they spoke no Latin, watching them both closely. Marcus couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Marcus was to be freed to go to his lands in Hispania. There, he was to send the high price of his freedom back to the village. And to ensure that he complied, Esca was to remain in his stead, working for Gardrake. As a hostage. As a slave.

Marcus stared at Esca. He wondered for a moment if he, if they both, had brain damage from the shipwreck.

*

The next few hours passed in a daze.

He had so little time to talk to Esca; they were never alone, and he had so many questions.

He tried to ask Esca what he was.

Esca half-smiled and explained that he was the Eagle of his tribe; he was in line to replace his mother as the god's emissary, but he had never truly had chance to learn from her before she was killed and his tribe's remnants scattered. Here, he said, they had understood some of what that meant to him.

He asked Esca why he was doing this.

Esca paused, looking away. When he turned back he looked torn. “I trust in your honour,” Esca replied. “The Eagle told me that your fate and mine are linked, and that I must help you as you helped me.”

Marcus still felt he was dreaming when he was packed off the next day with one of the bard's companions. The man could speak a little Latin. He would guarantee safe passage for Marcus to the port in the south, and arrange his voyage to Hispania. Between Esca's villagers, he was given a little coin to take with him and tokens to send back with his ransom, to ensure it was protected on the return.

Esca's companions were there to see him off, and, Marcus thought, to ensure Gardrake knew that his temporary hostage was to be well-treated.

When it came time to leave, he took off the carved Eagle and looked in Esca's eyes as he put it over his head. “Hold on, my friend.”

Esca finally stepped forward and held him tightly. They clung together for a long time. Marcus couldn't let go, and in the end it was Esca who managed to turn away.

*

Meeting Stephanos was sweet indeed. He had many ancient stories of Marcus's father and no stopper on his mouth.

Stephanos didn't much like the plan to sell any of the land. He had been steward here for many years, and advised against dividing it, unconvinced by Marcus's rationale and mystified by how Marcus could think himself in debt to a Briton—let alone a slave. But Stephanos loved tales, and he slowly warmed to the myth Marcus wove about Esca: the boy in many disguises, captured as a warrior, escaping as a woman, and dancing as an Eagle, before negotiating better than any Consul. And that he had traded himself for Marcus with only his faith in Marcus's honour as his bond.

Telling his own story, Marcus left out much about the domus and told little of his own ordeals. Still, Stephanos looked at Marcus fondly, and finally nodded his head. He persuaded Marcus to sell livestock and some fine jewellery instead of the farmland; Marcus was surprised how much they could hope to realise without threatening their capital. Finding a suitable buyer took some time. Turning the assets into common currency for the bard's networks to forward to Hibernia took even longer.

Eventually Marcus was able to dispatch his ransom. Now all he could do was wait for the tides and hope his prayers reached the gods' ears. Whatever Esca decided to do, Marcus wished him well. He didn't dare to hope that Esca might come here, now that he was amongst people similar to his own, who allowed him to practice his own religion, and cared for him. Nevertheless, he had sent the offer, and funds for Esca himself should he choose to travel.

It could be months before he even got his receipt—his proof that the ransom had been paid and that Esca was free. Farm life was busy, and should keep him occupied.

The villa itself was quiet. Much quieter than he was used to, away from the town and near no villages. It was secluded near its own bit of headland, with some magnificent views of the sea and access to good fishing. Marcus walked his aches and pains around the ribbon of cliffs and seashore every day, enjoying the peace and making plans, and trying not to imagine what the place would be like with another to share it.

When the girl was found on the shore, shivering and wretched, he only thought to save her life. As a runaway she should have been turned in, but she was sufficiently far from her Lusitanian origins that he could find excuses enough to protect her. In any case, she was a good cook—the more so when she realised he wasn't going to bed her. There were a lot of half-whispered comments on market days when her swelling belly couldn't be hidden. Marcus put up with them good-naturedly, and kept to himself the knowledge about why she had run away. It was not uncommon.

They called the baby girl Eva. Marcus persuaded himself that he was happy watching her blink in the sunshine, and didn't dwell on the hopes and prayers that he'd sent winging on smoke and air.

 

**Part Four**

 

When the taxi deposited him at a rutted track with no-one in sight, Esca felt like he had jet lag. It was a small fortune in Euros but he could claim the expenses, provided the taciturn Galician would give him a receipt.

The man eventually wrote him a slip of paper, and waved him up the track, smiling and waving more when Esca looked dubious. He hefted his rucksack and set off down the lane. At least the summer evenings meant it was light, and still warm.

The site of the proposed house was all dusty earth heaved from the ground, surrounded by piles of building materials stacked and redundant, some covered in tarps. Next to this in a higgledy square were a variety of large tents, a portakabin and three portaloos. Presumably one of the tents was now home. He mooched around until he found someone, a youngish woman hunched over a microscope in the cabin who introduced herself as Mathilde.

Esca dropped his bags where directed. He would've quite like to drop himself. He felt like he'd travelled on every form of transport ever invented by humans—except for any comfortable ones. Mathilde, an archaeology student from Holland, obviously had other plans.

She dragged him up the hill at the back of the site. At the top was a small tent, and down the other side he met the whole group having an impromptu session whilst the boss was away. He was too tired to remember everyone's name and nationality, but they plied him with beer and barbecue, and it was all good.

The view on the seaward-side, with the building-site hidden round the hill, was utterly breathtaking.

They woke him up to come down the hill in the pitch dark, teasing him about his stamina. He slept really deeply, despite sharing a tent with complete strangers.

The next morning Placido was, well, beautiful as well: all toned body, chiselled jaw and confident competence. Esca felt like a scrawny grad-student, wet behind the ears, but Placido seemed to think he knew something worth knowing and showed him round the dig-site personally.

Esca wasn't sure if the Spanish in general were more touchy-feely than he was used to, or if it was just Placido.

*

 

 

Esca was writing up his notes on his laptop, and looking various things up—Wikipedia was remarkably useful even at this level.

Cottia Delaney has joined gchat.

CD Esca?

EC Hi babe.

CD What's Placido Domingo like then?

EC Ha ha.  
EC He works really hard and is totally committed.

CD Is he good to work for?

EC Yes, he makes time for my questions.

CD Is he good looking?

He was going to write yes, and then he stopped, unsure.

CD Esca? He totally is isn't he?

EC He pronounces my name Esco.

CD LOL. Do you like it?

EC I'm not sure.

CD Oh baby.

He looked at the ceiling of the cabin before he wrote:

EC Screwing the boss isn't a good idea.

CD Are you?

EC No. But I think I could if I wanted.

CD You're not there long. Might be fun, and help you get over wanker-man.

EC Piss off. He isn't a wanker. He's a friend.  
EC Actually, there's a possibility of staying on longer—a year's funding.

CD If you say so.  
CD :( I'll miss you, but I'm trying not to be selfish. That'd be good for you right?

EC Yeah. There's nothing in the UK.

CD Big decisions Obi Wan. Look I've got to go. Wish me luck.

EC Break a leg, spidergirl.

*

Esca was looking at the new scans that had been emailed to him. He'd seen something like that before, somewhere.

He noticed Mark was online; that was unusual. He logged in.

EC Hi Armyboy.

MA Hi geekboy. How's Spain?

EC Placido wants me to stay on longer—he thinks I can charm the Americans who come over.

MA I don't think I like that idea.

Esca typed Are you jealous? then deleted it. He knew they weren't on the same page where that was concerned, and jokes didn't always make it through the internet.

EC Why? You think I can't charm Americans?

MA It means you won't be around when I get back.

Whoa. Mixed messages. He hesitated again. He needed to avoid falling for that one.

MA I'm sure you can charm Americans, but why do you need to?

EC It gives us a better chance with funding for a more extensive dig.

MA What about your thesis?

EC I might have to choose between eating and studying.  
EC This at least feeds me.

MA But is there a future in it?

Esca was about to respond...

MA Sounds like you'll just be a glorified tour guide.

He felt a pulse of annoyance lick through him.

EC Fuck you armyboy.

There was a longer pause before the next message.

MA You wish!

Yeah. Well.

EC At least I'm preserving history, not blowing it up.

There was another pause. Esca started to regret what he'd written. He'd quite like to keep this friendship going, now they'd managed to re-start it.

MA Not a lot left to blow up round here.  
MA Except humans.

 

*

“Placido?” Esca knocked on the door-frame “You've got your interested look on.”

“Esco,” Placido looked up and smiled. “Come on in.”

Esca came over to the desk. There was nowhere to sit down with the other chair heaped in books, papers, and a straw bag teetering on top. He felt a bit like a pupil in the teacher's office, and deliberately perched on Placido's desk to seem a little more at ease, gesturing at the pile of photos and papers. “What have you found?”

“I'm thinking about the grave. It's often the extra projects that are the most, um, rewarding.”

“Yeah? What's special about this one?”

“The grave could be contemporaneous with the villa, but it's pretty unusual.”

“Why?”

“It looks like a Roman soldier, which would fit with the villa. But, he's buried in the an iron-age fashion. Yet, not many iron-age people were buried, at least around here. It also looks like a double burial with his wife interred earlier in the same grave. We haven't got to her bones yet so I'm not certain. We have pieces of Roman armour—which I want you to take a look at—and some obvious damage to his femur suggesting a wound, possibly a battle wound, though his bones show many signs of ageing.”

“He lived a long time?”

“Probably, yes. Life expectancy could be quite long. We'll know more when we get them looked over and dated, but with the lab services at present, that could be a while.”

“So,” Esca was thinking, “You've got a Roman soldier perhaps with a local wife, maybe not as Romanised as usual. Maybe she was someone special, buried in that style because they thought it was important? For her gods perhaps.”

“Hmm, maybe. Yes, I like that theory. Her bones are buried next to his, but not at the same time. Maybe someone chose to have him buried according to her ways, but they still recognised and acknowledged his status as a soldier.”

“If he was buried with her, but later, he must have not married again. So presumably they weren't going against his wishes to bury him like that. Especially if they kept his armour.”

“Well, we're speculating even more there. But any theories that fit the facts are always helpful. We'll see what we've got once we get the lab onto it.” Placido smiled at him and sat back in the chair, stretching his arms out above his head and arching back. “Did you want something?”

Esca pulled his eyes away from the man's body, shaking his head. He was missing his friends—even Lee. This was the nearest warm body, with the bonus that Placido was showing a flattering interest in him. He just couldn't decide if he wanted it. “No. I was on my way back and saw the light on. Are you staying late?”

Placido was still smiling, a little knowingly. “Yes. The never-ending work of the dig-supervisor. You know how it is.” He raised his eyebrows at Esca as if he was actually asking for an answer then swivelled round to face his desk again. Dismissed, thought Esca, and stood up to walk away. Placido turned his head sideways just as he set off. “Esco. If you're still up at midnight, come and have a whisky with me; I have a rule not to work any later. It's my way of unwinding.”

Esca felt his face flush a little as he thought about unwinding Placido. He stumbled over his words. “OK. If I'm awake, I might do that.” He smiled and walked out of the room, resisting the urge to look back and check whether he was being watched. He knew he was.

Outside, he felt the warmth settle on his skin, and wandered up the hill to watch the dusk. He'd grown to love coming up here to think. There was no-one else around when he sat on the rock at the top looking out to sea.

So. Placido.

Points for: He was good looking. He was attractive. Hard-working. He knew his stuff. He seemed to like Esca. He seemed to think Esca knew his stuff.

Point against: He was the boss. That could get difficult, especially if he wanted to stay longer.

Point for: He was available—probably. Certainly.

Point against: Hmm. He couldn't think of any more.

Point for: He wasn't Mark.

Hmm. Why wasn't good-looking, attractive and seemingly-available enough?

Point against: He wasn't Mark.

Esca stared out to the darkening sea and bit his lip. He thought of the sea eagles swooping in the air. He didn't want any whisky.

*

He couldn't quite get used to his own voice amplified over the fancy speakers. The museum at Pontevedra was remarkably popular, and had pulled in some serious European funding—judging by the new exhibition space.

“If you look to the left, ladies and gentlemen, you will see the diorama of this area in the early first millennium, when it was under Roman rule. As we run through the time-line of the finds from the area, you can see the pattern of local land-use from the earlier bronze,” he paused and pressed the buttons for the illuminated areas to change, “and iron-age civilizations that preceded, and then were defeated and absorbed by the Romans.”

*

On his way back to the dig-site from doing his stint at the museum, he was enjoying the scenery on the coast road. There were enough English-speakers to warrant a dedicated tour In English once a week, and though it wasn't a popular choice amongst the dig-site regulars, Esca quite liked doing it. Also, he was now chief English-speaker, though he sometimes thought some of the others had better English than he did.

He'd picked up the scans that Placido had mentioned, and taken a brief look at the folder of photos and articles that had now been given to him with the new task. He didn't know on the face of it what the small lump signified, but he'd give it a shot when he got back and could look at the real thing. He always liked to work from the artefact itself, not just all the photos and techie stuff. Preferably, he would get his hands on it for real—one advantage of being at the actual dig and not just looking at a case full of other people's finds.

His phone went and he glanced at the display. Phone reception was crap at the site, so he pulled into a lay-by with a view of the sea and stopped the engine.

“Cottia! Hello lovey.”

_You weren't going to ring me, were you?_

“Course I was. Just, reception's rubbish where we are, so it's easier to email you.”

_So where are all the emails?_

“I just … got engrossed. Sorry.”

_Hmm. Engrossed? Is that what you're calling it? Anyway, how's it all going? Dug up anything interesting yet apart from bits of pot?_

“Pot's interesting, if you know what you're looking at!”

_Yeah, I'm sure. So. You've found nothing very interesting then?_

“We _have_ actually. There's a grave on the headland with some odd features, which seems to be connected to the villa.”

_Which poor soul is being dug up now for your grave-robbing tendencies?_

“We take it very seriously you know. The _really_ interesting thing is that there are two men in the grave. Together. Buried in one grave as if they're a couple.”

_Really? Trust you and your sugar daddy to find a couple of gay skeletons. They must be so old though, I don't know how you can tell they're both men. You could be wrong?_

“I know you're suspicious of all those CSI programmes-–I've trained you well—but these bones are in good condition. The differences are sufficient that even _I_ can tell they're both likely to be of men. Luckily, it wasn't down to me to say; it was one of the others who confirmed it and she's an expert at this kind of thing.”

_Do you think they were family then, or lovers?_

“Well, that's where everyone's speculating of course. My bit of this investigation is mainly around the bits of metal from the Roman armour. It's puzzling why there's Roman armour in this kind of grave at all, except for the location near the villa, but there's something else that's odd: the bits don't really go together, as if someone has just collected items of armour. It was all found as if he was wearing it, but there are important bits missing—like his breastplate—even though the grave is otherwise undamaged. He's old though; perhaps he just lost bits of his own armour or gave them to someone else.”

_Fascinating._

“Oh, sorry. Am I going off on one? I just get really involved.”

_No really. It's cute. You just want them to be lovers don't you? Or is that your boss's interest?_

“No, certainly not. We're scientists here, working from the facts.”

Laughter sounded through the speaker. _Yeah, right._

“Maybe I do want them to be. It would be … poetic. At the moment we're just coming up with theories and playing. What I _know_ so far, is that the other man is adult but not armoured, he just has a knife-blade. It could be the first man's father, or brother—despite their size differences—or even his son, but that would be very sad as he was buried first. There's some jewellery that they're both wearing – it's very hard to tell what it might have been but it looks like some kind of amulet. One of them was found on the soldier's ribs so it looks like it was worn round the neck, though of course the cords are long rotted away. We can't tell yet whether they're the same; I'm waiting for more scans.”

_It sounds like you're having lots of fun sweetie._

“It's more interesting than I expected – it's added a twist to the villa excavations.”

_And is anything else going on? Any extra twists? Swapped amulets with Placido yet?_

“No, I … he's … he might be interested, but I'm just …”

_Yeah?_

“I don't know. I can see the attraction, I'm just not really feeling it.”

_Oh Esca._

“What?”

_You don't get it do you?_

“Get what?”

_You're an idiot._

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Your constant support means a lot to me.”

_You know I'm always here for you, baby. Just a phone call away. If you can remember how to use your phone when you've got all that other techie stuff out there._

“Yeah. I know. Thanks Cottia. I haven't you asked how you are?”

_Yeah yeah. I'm fine, and now I've got to go. But ring me soon and ask me again, sweet-cheeks._

“OK.”

_Promise Esca?_

“Promise. Love you.”

_You too. Bye._

*

The evening was beautiful again; the sun was a glowing ball over the sea and there was a faint pine scent from the cooling trees. He'd been day-dreaming, trying to imagine the place two thousand years ago and wondering if the eagles were here then. There were probably more of them.

And what would two lovers wear round their necks? Jewellery was as old as the proverbial hills and there were plenty of examples of ancient love tokens in museums all over the world, but he knew he was being fanciful again. He couldn't resist it; “Last of the great romantics,” his mum had called him, even after he told her he preferred men.

He was interrupted by voices and the happy chink of beer bottles being lugged up the hill.

Mathilde slapped an opened one into his hand as she dropped down next to him, shading her eyes. “What's that?” she asked, gesturing at the thing he'd been twisting and turning in his other hand.

“One of the amulets,” he said, showing her the bird-shaped lump of metal, flat on his palm. “One of the amulets from the grave. I'm trying to work out what the other one might be, but there’s not a lot left—it’s almost certainly wood—and the photos aren’t good.”

“Does Placido know you've got it up here?” He thought she sounded slightly shocked. That was unusual, she was normally laid back to the point of being horizontal.

“Yes. No. I'm not sure.” He grinned at her, sheepishly. “I'm seeking inspiration,” he used it to point out the grave site behind them and the view in front, “and it feels like it belongs up here.”

“I'm sure he'll let _you_ off,” she said, knowingly.

He took a drink, and didn't bother to deny it.

*

“If you look to the left, ladies and gentlemen, you will see the diorama of this area in the early first millennium when it was under Roman rule, but …” Esca ground to a halt when the lights on the display gave him a glimpse of the dark-haired, tall man standing in the shadows at the back of the group.

Mark?

He felt his heart rate go up, and knew he was standing with his mouth open as Mark looked straight at him, and smiled. The pause had gone on. Esca realised several people were looking quizzically at him. He was getting more attention not speaking than when he spoke. How unflattering.

He stared at Mark. He'd vaguely noticed someone tag along just after starting today's tour of the exhibition centre. In the low-lighting, he'd been pre-occupied with the group of student-types straddling the line between asking interesting questions and pissing everyone else off.

Now he wasn't thinking about anything much, completely floored. He shook himself and smiled before he went on, activating the changes in the display. “As you can see as we scroll through the time-line, traces remained in this period of the earlier iron-age occupants whose civilization was absorbed by the Romans.”

As he led his little band round the displays, and fended off the endless questions from a couple of the students, his gaze kept gravitating to Mark. Mark looked at the displays and was hanging back, obviously trying not to put Esca off. Every now and then their eyes met, and Esca felt his breath catch. He relied on auto-pilot for much of the tour, glad that he'd written it out and learnt it by rote the first couple of times, in order to cope with his performance-nerves. His mouth went through the motions all on its own.

By the time he led them into the gift-shop area, he felt hoarse from swallowing all the things he wanted to say. A couple of people hung back to ask him extra questions; he politely but very quickly answered them, then excused himself.

Mark was standing back against a wall of maps and posters, looking at him, eyebrows raised. Esca gestured to him and turned to retreat through a side exit, expecting Mark to be right behind him. He held the door ajar as the moment lengthened. Puzzled, he turned back to look in the shop. Mark was still coming towards him but slowly, limping and leaning on a walking stick.

As Mark came nearer, Esca moved outside again—it at least gave the illusion of privacy. There was a moment's hesitation where they looked at each other before Esca stepped in and hugged Mark. His “What happened to you?” got muffled into Mark's collar.

Mark hugged him back and kissed his temple. “I'm on recuperative leave. I got hit, by shrapnel.”

“What!?” Esca stepped back to look at him. “Where?”

“In the thigh.”

“No, idiot. Where were you, and are you going to be OK?”

“Mostly. I was in Afghanistan. It could have been much worse; luckily for me it should heal with a little help. The muscle will never be quite the same, but I can walk OK now.”

Esca found he was gaping. He shut his mouth.

“Um, can you walk far? I want to show you something at the dig-site, and it's up a hill.”

“I get tired, but I'm good for about an hour.”

“Perfect. I just need to grab some stuff, and let Concepción know I'm skiving off.”

Mark looked worried. “I don't want to get you in trouble. I can, um, come back later if you're still working.”

Esca felt a rush of affection. “I'd forgotten how very moral you are.” He grinned at Mark. “No-one will mind; there're people staffing the shop. If I stay, I'll only get grabbed by those students and forced to discuss their theories of Celtic migration. Which, you know, ordinarily...”

Mark leant against the wall. “OK. Shall I wait here?”

“Back in a moment.”

*

Esca abandoned the Jeep just beyond the tents and led Mark up through the scrubby shrubs to the main path up the hill. He kept checking back to make sure the brambles he pulled aside weren't whipping in Mark's face; Mark's stick was proving useful to beat back the undergrowth. He grinned back at Esca as he got a little breathless climbing the hill. By some unspoken agreement they'd barely said a word since leaving the visitor centre, but the silence was … well, if anything, peaceful.

The trees near the top obscured the view. Esca paused as Mark climbed the last couple of steps to the little rocky summit, deliberately blocking the sight-lines until Mark was at the top. Then he took Mark's hand and turned him round, slowly. He looked out himself for a moment, never tiring of this view: sea inlets and further promontories, repeated in a dazzling sequence as far as you could see. “Worth coming all this way for?” he asked.

Mark's face was slightly sweaty from the effort of climbing on his bad leg, eyes rapt on the horizon. He turned to Esca, and slowly smiled. “Stunning,” he nodded, keeping eye contact.

Esca felt suddenly flustered and not sure what to say next. The ease he'd felt before had evaporated. He dropped Mark's hand and looked back out to sea.

“Mark,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Mark breathed in, audibly. “I bumped into Cottia.”

Esca found himself gaping at Mark again.

“She said, that you said, that I wasn't a wanker.” Mark smiled.

“And on the basis of that … faint praise, you came all the way here?”

“She seemed to think it was praise indeed.”

“OK.” Esca looked down, wondering where to start.

Mark said more seriously, “You ran away. Before I could explain.”

Esca glanced up at him. “Yeah. I... I just wasn't ready to hear the let's-be-friends conversation then.”

“Ah. Then look, let me just say this. There was someone else. He died. Before I met you—long before. But, when you said nearest and dearest... it was a joke we used to have.”

“God. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.” Mark nodded. “But... I tried to ring you. I wanted to see you, but I wasn't sure how you felt. I mean, you seemed to like me, but then, radio silence.”

They both looked out to sea for a moment.

Esca turned to take Mark's hand again. “Thank God for Cottia then.”

Mark smiled at him. “So, how _do_ you feel about me?”

Esca bit his lip, trying to stop his smile. “Didn't Cottia tell you?”

Mark shook his head, then looked past him, eyes widening. “What's that?”

Esca turned to look. “Ah. One of the local attractions.”

“It looks like an eagle?”

“Yep.” Esca squeezed Mark's hand and they watched it for a moment. “Top predator.”

Mark pulled Esca's hand to his lips and looked back at Esca. “I was led to believe that was your professor.”

Esca huffed and put his other hand up to Mark's neck. “What _else_ did Cottia tell you?”

Mark smiled. “Absolutely nothing, honestly, though she makes a fine travel agent.”

Mark's lips were warm on his fingers, and his eyes were green in the sunlight. Esca just stood and watched him, until Mark nipped his knuckles with his teeth, grinning.

He pulled Mark's head forward and leant in to kiss him properly.

Their lips met, and Esca felt his whole body respond, swaying forwards into Mark's embrace. The kiss felt like a promise, and he opened up to it, body and soul.

Mark tasted of mint. When he pulled away slightly, Esca followed him, eager for more. Mark said, “Beautiful though this place is, my leg aches and I don't think I can ravish you the way I want to on these rocks. I've got a very comfortable hotel bed. Come back with me?”

Esca said, “Kiss me again, and then I'll decide.”

 

 

 

 

**Part Five**

 

 

Marcus sat on the boulder and looked at the baby's face—so small and pink. It was hard to believe this little scrap, calm and docile, had resulted from all that pain and screaming.

Marcus had felt like he himself was the father, waiting for good news. It had been worse even than waiting for the receipt for his ransom. That had eventually come, showing that Esca was free now, and their debts to each other paid. Esca himself had not come, and Marcus had thrown himself into his new role as landowner and farmer.

When the baby was born, he'd also thrown himself into other tasks as a distraction. He'd tried to keep busy doing something—anything—noisy enough to drown out the sounds. In the end he'd gone with one of the farmhands to use his dry-stone wall skills, and stayed away until dusk.

When they returned, Eva's calm presence had transformed the place, and now it seemed everyone in his growing household was happy to take their turn relieving her mother and showing her the world.

He was far enough from the edge not to worry that he'd drop Eva if she woke and wriggled. Her mother was off doing chores and bothering Stephanos. To be honest, he enjoyed her tiny company on his solitary walks, though she stopped him doing the scrambling he'd normally do. He was missing the view from the top of the hill, but the view here on the cliff top was nearly as good, balanced on the edge of the world.

And today was a special day. There was the eagle, wheeling high over the rocky tongues with stripes of sea glittering in the background.

*

He walked back through the farmyard. Stephanos was talking to a man, only their feet visible beneath a horse's belly, the horse's legs dusty from the road. He wondered if this was another stray or runaway. He would have to be a bit careful taking more in; he'd risk getting a reputation and unwelcome attention. But, there was always work on the farm, and they weren't at full complement yet.

Stephanos was speaking, “Who shall I say is here?”

Marcus walked round the horse, and stopped dead, gripping Eva to him. Esca's eyes turned from Stephanos, bluer than he remembered against the dust on his face.

Esca looked at the baby.

Marcus felt the rush of emotion burst through him. “Stephanos. _This_ is my friend Esca. Who saved my life.” He went towards Esca and realised the baby was in his way; he pushed her towards Stephanos, who took her gently. He pulled Esca into his arms, hardly able to keep from lifting him up. He was barely able to let go, kissing Esca's temple as he finally pulled away.

Esca stepped back, saying, “Marcus. Well-met, my friend.”

Marcus couldn't quite bear the distance. He stepped forward, taking Esca's shoulders. “You're alive; you came.” He didn't understand why Esca was not looking at him.

Esca spoke quietly. “I… I wonder if I may stay with you a while?”

Marcus stared at him, before gathering himself a little. “Of course. Stephanos,” he managed to drag his eyes away for a moment, but gripped Esca harder. “Please get Xandro to take the horse and put Esca's things in a guest room. I would...We have much to talk about and I would take him with me now.”

Stephanos was already gathering the horse's bridle. Marcus had no idea what Stephanos said, because Esca's eyes were now on his. Marcus held on to that pure gaze as Esca's arms came up to his shoulders. Esca looked almost in pain; he moved his hands to Marcus's neck and said, “Marcus.”

A lurch of joy went through him. That look was unmistakeable.

Esca's body was swaying towards him, pulled by his gaze, and Marcus allowed his hands to run down Esca's back. He'd dreamt of this for so long now, of feeling this body in his arms. There was something niggling at him, but this, to have this now...

His hands reached Esca's buttocks and he paused, the surge of want so strong he knew it was overtaking his sense. Much as he might like to, this was not the place to consummate their passion, in the midst of the day with the bustle of farm life around them. He needed to take Esca to his bed.

He took Esca's hand and turned, pulling him toward the cool shade of the main building and down a sunlight-striped corridor to his room. Only once inside did Esca speak, still holding his hand. “Marcus, what about... the baby?”

“The baby?” Marcus was stumped.

Esca looked sad. It brought back too many memories. Marcus was determined he would not be sad again.

“Your baby. Your... woman?”

The fog of lust had obviously clouded his brains. Marcus had no idea what Esca meant. “My woman?”

Esca was sounding colder. “You would bed me with your wife here?”

Ah. He turned to face Esca, taking his other hand and holding his gaze.

“My Esca. There is no woman. Eva is not my child, or not of my loins, though I feel like her father.” He couldn't stop the smile, but then became serious again, though his heart leapt. “There is no one else with a claim on me; there has not been anyone for some time.” He watched the expression lift on Esca's face, and could hold back no more, moving forward to kiss him softly, murmuring. “Not since I met you.”

Esca pressed up into his hold, and the kiss deepened; Esca's tongue was hot and greedy, and Marcus wanted to suck it all night. He tightened his arms around Esca and allowed his hands to roam under his tunic, touching his skin.

Esca broke away, pulling back from Marcus. He said, “What have you done to me, Roman? I can think of none but you.”

“I thought you would never come,” Marcus answered, pulling Esca back towards him and kissing him again.

Esca's hands were lifting his tunic and rubbing his back, suddenly a whirl of action and heat.

They were upon Marcus's bed and Esca was pulling at his clothes, shoving his tunic up and getting his subligaculum undone. Esca's hand on his cock was hot and firm. Marcus could barely concentrate on pulling at the lacings on Esca's braccae, trying to pull them down his thighs to get his hands on that sweet arse.

It was so hot in the room; he couldn't think with Esca's hand merciless on his cock. Marcus lifted up on his knees to pull his tunic off and climbed over Esca, pushing him down and thrusting himself between Esca's thighs. Esca's cock was stiff and red where Marcus worked it with his hand, in time with his thrusts, remembering the soft strokes that had made Esca moan. Esca raised himself up on his elbows. He looked down his body to where Marcus's cock rutted and his own cock-head pumped in Marcus's fist.

Marcus looked at him, sweaty and dirty, and felt the swell of love. He leaned forward again to kiss him, feeling Esca's breathlessness on his lips. Esca's mouth opened, surrendering to Marcus's tongue as he gasped and cried out, convulsing in Marcus's hand.

Esca flopped backwards on the bed, arms loosely round Marcus' shoulders and Marcus adjusted, pulling his cock from Esca's thighs and taking hold. Esca looked up at him, his chest still heaving, nipples rings catching the light under the rucked-up folds of his tunic. Marcus breathed in his scent, sweat and semen. He felt himself tightening up. Esca dropped a fingertip to trace patterns on his chest, over his nipples. A few strokes and he was pulsing over Esca's white belly.

He couldn't hold the position and lay down beside Esca. Esca took off his tunic and wiped at the mess from them both. Dropping the cloth, Esca said, “I can stay the night here then?”

Marcus's heart felt full. He teased, “No. I think you should travel on, filthy traveller, because if you stay I am keeping you here in my bed forever.” He laughed, and Esca laughed. Then they were quiet, just looking at each other.

Marcus reached for the amulet at Esca's neck and held it. Esca moved as if to take it off, holding the cord. Marcus stopped him, stilling his hand. “Keep it on.”

Esca looked at him for a beat, then nodded. He pulled Esca close and they lay together for a while, both drifting to sleep in the warmth.

Marcus woke first, slightly cramped with his arm stuck underneath Esca's head. He looked at him, sleeping and beautiful, and felt his heart sing.

Esca's eyes opened as Marcus tried to ease his arm out. “Marcus,” he said, in wonderment. Marcus smiled, “Esca.”

Esca's gaze focused on Marcus's mouth; the hand on Marcus's chest stroked down to his groin. He rolled nearer to Marcus and nuzzled into his neck. Marcus's cock was in Esca's hand, being lazily caressed. Esca was at his ear, sucking his earlobe. Marcus stiffened further and groaned. Esca whispered, “I would feel you inside me.”

Marcus felt his stomach leap, but his head was full of memories. He and Esca had shared so much, but this... And Esca's hesitancy earlier echoed in his head, _may I stay a while?_ Marcus didn't know whether Esca would stay. He realised they hadn't talked about what they wanted—consumed instead by passion and need—and he was suddenly unsure. He wanted Esca to stay and live here, but what did Esca want?

Well, he knew what _he_ wanted, and perhaps it was time to tell Esca. If he and Esca could have anything, could put their pasts aside...

He was trying to build something new here, with his little community, and he dearly wanted Esca to be part of it. But it had to be by his own choice.

He took a deep breath and blew it out. “You do not have to do this for me.” Esca frowned at him, but he went on; “For honour's sake, I must tell you what is in my heart, though I feel more cowardly about this than any battle.” He paused, hearing only the silence of the villa's mid-afternoon slumber.

He held Esca's eyes. “I mean it when I ask you to my bed forever. But it has to be _your_ choice now, and if you want this just for the night, then I will … I will follow your choice.”

Esca rolled away onto his back. Marcus couldn't interpret his expression, and felt his anxiety building. This had been sweet, but he wanted so much more.

“Marcus”, Esca said, turning his head to look at Marcus's face. “I have been travelling for days, for hundreds of miles. I came here only for you. You are all I want.” He shifted, tracing Marcus's eyebrow with a finger, and added, “Forever.”

His breath stuck in his throat as Esca leaned toward him. The kiss was intense—a promise.

Marcus loved the way their bodies melted together; he would never get enough of this. His Briton was here of his own choice, and he felt bliss take him over, pure and clean. Finally Esca pulled away, sitting up. He looked down at Marcus and smirked, challenging, “So, will you fuck me now?”

Marcus felt his cock leap. So it was to be like that. He flung an arm round Esca's chest and laughing, used his size to bear Esca back down to the bed. “With pleasure,” he said.

*

Mark was limping badly by the time they'd ditched the Jeep and made it through Pontevedra's higgledy streets to his weird hotel. Again, they'd barely said a word since the kiss on the hill, and Esca felt anticipation tensing him up from his shoulders to his toes.

The worst bit had been meeting Placido as they'd come down through the tents to the dig's car park. He'd stepped down from the cabin looking his usual well-groomed self just as Esca had come out of a tent with his bag. Esca had introduced them, and noticed the way Placido had assessed Mark—appraising and proprietary, all at once. That Placido had put his hand on Esca's arm had startled him. He suddenly felt like a bone between two dogs.

Placido had put on his sun glasses and wished them a good afternoon's sightseeing as he walked away. Mark had raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Esca was not about to start justifying himself.

Mark went to the window of his room and opened the shutters, then turned and smiled at Esca. “So. Cottia was right about the Professor?”

Esca went to sit on the bed. “Whatever she said ...” he tailed off. “Come here,” he said. “At the moment I don't want to talk about Placido, or about Cottia.”

Mark's expression was silhouetted, invisible, but his voice was roughened. “What _do_ you want, Esca?”

Esca reached his hand up and pulled Mark forward to stand between his legs. “It's pretty simple. I want you.”

Mark bent down and Esca tilted his head back to kiss him, tipping them both back on the bed.

 

*

 

“I can't believe you got injured just so that you could come and see me.” Esca teased, sitting back down on Mark's side of the bed.

Mark's voice was muffled, face down in the pillow and sleepy. “I had to find some excuse to come and rescue you from the clutches of your mad professor.”

Esca pulled his heel onto the bed and the towel came loose from his waist. He said, dryly, “And stake your claim.”

“... Maybe.” Mark turned over and reached out, stroking slowly down Esca's arm. “Is it time to do that again yet?” he said, moving to pull at the towel.

“Maybe,” Esca smiled. He had a good feeling about this.

 

**Epilogue**

 

 

 

Marcus swallowed back the tears, and used his sleeve to dry his eyes.

Enough. He tucked the amulet back under his tunic.

They'd had a happy life, a long life in the end. Esca had been buried for ten years now and would command this landscape always, in death as in life.

It was too hard for him to get up here, so high above the villa. His weekly climb had become an occasional trip, and now, he thought, it may be his last: this anniversary visit.

Marcus noticed Eva near the trees. She must have hung back to wait for him, patiently and quietly. He was a lucky man. She took his arm as they made their way carefully down the hill, Marcus's staff on one side and Eva's strong shoulder on the other.

“You know that the farm is yours when I die?” he said.

“Yes, Papa, you've told us all many, many, times.” She squeezed his arm affectionately to take the sting out of her words.

He looked at her, smiling at her use of the honorific title, and stumbled a bit on the stony path.

“Careful, Papa,” she gripped his elbow more firmly.

“And you know to bury me with Esca?”

“Of course. And with all your bits and pieces. Though you'll have to lose some of this belly if you want us to drag your corpse up this path. We've been too good to you since he went; he would have kept you in order.”

He pinched her upper arm. “It's not too late to cut you out of my will. I'm not dead yet, my girl.”

“Ha! One push and you'd roll down the hill.”

“Eva!”

“I wouldn't.” She hugged him to her. “You wouldn't. But I'm sure even if you did, the others would look after me. I'm the best cook of the lot, and the horses love me.”

“Cupboard-love, all of it.” He paused for a moment, shifting his weight on to his less-bad side. The farm was spread out in front of him now they'd rounded the hill. “I've seen you bribe those horses with apples. You'd better not let Xandro see you.”

“Xandro knows exactly what I'm doing, and has given his permission.”

“Is there no one not under your influence?” Marcus kept his tone dry.

“You know there isn't.”

Marcus chuckled.

Eva carried on, “Well, someone had to continue in Esca's footsteps.”

Marcus glanced at her. “Yes, my dear. You've filled some of his roles to perfection.” He moved his hand to pat the Eagle on his chest and looked to the western horizon, seawards. “But one or two... “

Eva took his arm again, and led off down the track to the farm. “Yes, Papa?”

“One or two, no one else could ever fill.”

 

**The End**


End file.
